Do No Harm
by chris dee
Summary: Cat—Tale 59: Untold Tales from the first year of Bruce and Selina's relationship.
1. Clip Show

**Do No Harm  
**Chapter 1: Clip Show

* * *

"A 'clip show', Master Tim?"

"Yeah, it's for this Narrative Techniques class I'm auditing. My electives were so stuffy and science heavy. After that whole Ra's mess with the symposium and all the scientists getting kidnapped, I decided I really wanted a new direction. Live a little, try a bit of everything."

Alfred doused his dust rag with the special slime-resistant coating and applied it like furniture polish to the top of Batman's work console.

"An admirable sentiment," he said, switching to a feather duster and attacking the keyboard with gusto. "A liberal arts base is a fine foundation for a well-rounded education. My query was more… What exactly _is_ a 'clip show', Master Tim?"

"It's, like, when a TV sitcom wants to save money, they'll come up with some lame reason for everybody to sit around remembering stuff that happened earlier, and then they get to reuse all this old footage. String it together in this dumb 'let's keep stepmom with a concussion awake for two days so she doesn't fall into a coma' framework."

"I… see," Alfred said skeptically.

"I know, it's kinda trite. But the assignment is really cool. Take that _format_ to present something from one of your other classes. If it's history, you might do World War I, or business students might do the industrial revolution or the great depression. Psychology, start with Freud, Jung, Pavlov, like that."

"I fear an engineering student would have a daunting task before him," Alfred observed dryly.

"I don't think engineers take this class," Tim said with a grin.

"And which of your courses do you plan to explore via this innovative literary style?"

"Rise of the Mystery Men, from the Sociology of Superheroes."

Alfred scowled disapprovingly, and at first, Tim thought it must be the subject of his class project—but then he saw Alfred point the spray can at a stubborn discoloration on the side of a display case. After a sustained spray that looked vindictive, Alfred flipped his featherduster around and scraped the offending spot with the hard ridge of the handle.

"Better," he said finally.

"When do Bruce and Selina get back?" Tim asked, noting his own workstation gleamed with unprecedented luster.

"Master Bruce concluded his business at the London office yesterday. He and Miss Selina are enjoying a final day of sightseeing, and will fly back tonight. Tomorrow is to be spent reacclimating to the Gotham timezone so he may resume his nocturnal schedule in the evening."

"I'm surprised you didn't go with them, Alfred. I mean, London's the old home town, right?"

"Master Bruce did suggest it, but I prefer to take this rare opportunity to give the cave a proper cleaning and see to certain other tasks around the manor that are not practical when the master is in residence."

"Ah, well I'll get out of your way then. If you've only got one more day with him out of your hair, I better let you make the most of it."

* * *

*** Years Before***

* * *

Alfred hurried past the conservatory windows, around the rose garden, and stamped his feet fiercely on the mat outside the kitchen door. The act offered a double benefit while he fumbled for his key: it knocked the caked mud from his shoes, and it allowed him to feel vigorous. It was still early. Master Bruce would not be back from his holiday for several hours, but Alfred still would have preferred more time to prepare for his homecoming.

It wasn't as though Master Bruce had been away for a long time. Four days, what people with normal work schedules would call a long weekend. It was nothing, as far as the _time_ involved… And it wasn't as if there was any kind of "homecoming" to prepare, either. Whenever Master Bruce returned from a business trip or from a Batman mission outside Gotham, he settled back into his routine as if he'd never left. The only difference this time was that it was a trip undertaken for _pleasure_. Even that meant nothing as far as Bruce Wayne's public image. As far as the world was concerned, there was very little the billionaire playboy didn't undertake solely for his own pleasure. The reality, of course, was quite different. The reality… that Batman's flirtations with the enigmatic cat burglar had progressed so far that he'd taken her away with him on a vacation, that was unprecedented. Alfred knew better than anyone that Batman was capable of extraordinary compromises where Catwoman was concerned, but he never admitted them. This—inviting her to go away with him—that was an overt act. It wasn't something he could hide, from her, from Alfred, or from himself. It was absolutely unprecedented.

Given the unusual nature of the holiday, it was quite possible, quite probable in fact, that Master Bruce would return in an unpredictable state of mind. Alfred suspected that, rather than settling back into his routine as if he had never left, there would be an onerous push, a disproportionate effort to make up for lost time. It seemed quite likely that, since he had indulged his own desires for once, he would now embark on an irrational and bad-tempered campaign to retroactively erase it.

A good servant anticipated such things. It wasn't certain, but it was possible, and indeed quite probable, that Batman would push all non-Bat considerations into the corner for the next several days, perhaps even a week. It was therefore prudent to complete all the Batcave inventories and cleaning, so as not to be in the master's way once he took up residence in the cave. It would also be prudent to prepare a quantity of sandwiches and cutlets that were suitable for cave-service meals. Alfred would have preferred to spend these days of Master Bruce's absence preparing for his return in just this way. And yet, he himself had gone on holiday. The quaint, Connecticut bed and breakfast was scenic enough, they laid an admirable tea every afternoon, and he learned a few things about heirloom roses. He just _didn't want to be there_. He wanted to be back at the manor attending to his duties, but instead… what a preposterous waste of time.

He had felt obligated to go away, though. There was simply no denying the fact that he'd deceived Master Bruce in a most underhanded fashion. It was not possible to live two lives as busy and weighted with responsibilities as Bruce Wayne's and Batman's—not to mention keeping one of those lives a secret from the world—without trusting the details to someone like Alfred. And Alfred had absolutely abused that trust.

He _pretended_ Master Dick came up with the idea on his own and that Master Dick already spoken to Bruce about it. Indeed, he pretended Master Dick had spoken to Alfred himself about his plan. The truth was that Alfred had called Dick, not the other way around. Alfred told Master Dick, flat out, that he and Master Tim should plan on covering Batman's patrols the next three nights, enabling Bruce to take a vacation. He told Dick this would be his Father's Day present to Bruce, and that if Bruce asked, Dick should say he'd already mentioned it—_twice_. If Bruce expressed any skepticism or pressed for details as to where and when this alleged conversation occurred, Master Dick should feel free to express his indignation. It was so typical of Bruce to just pretend he was listening when he was really tuning you out, because _you're still a sidekick,_ after all, and you couldn't possibly have anything to say that the all-mighty Batman hadn't figured out already. So typical, so absolutely typical…

Alfred certainly hoped there would be no such inquisition and no such quarrel, but if he'd learned one thing as confidant to the World's Greatest Strategist, it was to plan for contingencies.

His deception hadn't ended there either. Alfred then went to Bruce, pushing the vacation on him as a _fait accompli_, and in order to preempt any squiriming, Alfred said how _he himself _had made plans for a getaway. Since Bruce's reluctance to take any kind of holiday meant that Alfred too never got a vacation… After sinking to such depths, Alfred really felt he had no choice but to pack a bag, drive to Connecticut, and pretend to enjoy himself.

That duty performed, he had been seated in the dining room at 7 a.m., the earliest hour at which the landlady said she would be up preparing breakfast. He checked out immediately after setting down his napkin, and drove back to the manor without stopping. Now, at last, he could get in a good few hours work around the cave and manor before Master Bruce's return.

* * *

Alfred had discovered a number of foods that were particularly well suited to being served in the Batcave, foods that could be left for an hour or more and were still tasty and of a pleasant consistency when cooled to room temperature. Chocolate chip scones were not among those dishes, but Alfred made a batch anyway. He knew it was an act borne of guilt, although he wasn't completely sure what associations were at play. Master Bruce was never that interested in scones of any variety—although this recipe was a particular favorite of the late Doctor Wayne.

"Of course," Alfred said aloud as he dropped the last tablespoon of batter onto the cookie sheet. Doctor Wayne… Christmas…

It was mid-December and Mrs. Wayne was out, finishing her Christmas shopping. Doctor Wayne was therefore alone when Alfred brought tea. In those days, Mrs. Ardilla did the baking, mostly from recipes Mrs. Wayne had brought with her from the Van Geissen kitchens.

"If I might have a moment, sir," he began formally.

"Any time, Pennyworth," Dr. Wayne smiled, taking one of the chocolate chip scones onto his plate.

"I thought you should be informed, sir, that young Master Bruce is polling the staff regarding certain inconsistencies in the Santa Claus matter. The number of homes with children, the aggregate weight of two presents per child results in a sizable payload, far beyond the capabilities of eight reindeer. The size of the earth is also a point of concern, necessitating travel well in excess of the speed of sound."

"Magic, Pennyworth. Santa is magical."

"Yes, sir. I shall inform the staff."

"The weight of the gifts… My son is a very bright boy, Pennyworth."

"Indeed he is, sir. Is it entirely wise to… deceive him?"

"About Santa Claus?"

"About anything, sir. It occurs to me that a child depends on the adults around him to teach him about the world."

"_Primum non nocere, _Pennyworth. That's the first principle of medicine. It means 'first, do no harm.' It exists because one of the first things you learn as a doctor is that there are very few things in this world that are, by their nature, wholly good or wholly bad. Alcohol in excess is a poison, so is the tannin in this tea. But in moderation, the person who enjoys a glass of red wine every day, despite the presence of both alcohol and tannins, is actually _healthier_ than a teetotaler. That's not a rare, outlying case, either. Other than firing a bullet into a healthy body, there is almost nothing a doctor can point to and say 'that is always going to be a bad thing'. You have to exercise judgment, case by case, so we have these guidelines to help us judge. First: do no harm.

"What I've told Bruce about Santa may not be strictly factual and scientifically verified, but its purpose is to make him happy. I don't see any harm in that, do you?"

"Not at all, sir."

At the time, Alfred thought nothing of the exchange. A few minutes of idle conversation while Doctor Wayne drank his tea... After the tragedy, such casual remarks took on new meaning. "You have to exercise judgment, case by case, so we have these guidelines to help us…"

Thomas Wayne valued his son's happiness.

Alfred picked up the tray of scones and turned to put the cookie sheet into the oven. His lie had done no harm, surely. And it was in the interests of Bruce's hap—

Behind him, he heard the door from the dining door swing open, and the heavy step of Master Bruce's foot on the kitchen floor.

"I see you are back, sir," Alfred began, turning back towards the door. "I trust you had a pleasant… weekend."

The pause was infinitesimal, and apart from a momentary widening of the pupils, there was no sign of surprise that non-kryptonian senses could detect. But the surprise was there all the same: Bruce wasn't alone.

"Selina Kyle, whom I may have mentioned from time to time," Bruce said with a relaxed easy manner Alfred seldom saw when a fop performance was not in progress.

"Very pleased to meet you, miss," Alfred said, with the same composure he would assume to greet any young woman Master Bruce brought home. Except _Bruce Wayne _had not brought this woman home—at least, Bruce Wayne had not gone away with her, Batman had. Alfred had packed his bag: an arab headdress to conceal his hair, band-style sunglasses to conceal his eyes, and triple check that no Wayne Tech polo shirt had slipped into the bag.

_First: Do no harm._

Master Bruce had gone into this vacation fully intending to keep his identity concealed. What could have happened?

_First: Do no harm._

"How do you do," Selina said, smiling.

_First: Do no harm._

Well, she was glowing, and Master Bruce's arm had slid around her waist the moment they were both inside the door, so one thing that apparently happened was sex.

_First: Do no harm._

"Alfred Pennyworth," Bruce was saying. "Alfred does everything around here. I couldn't get through the day without him…"

Sex happened. That should surprise no one. The attraction had been perfectly obvious the night Batman returned from his first encounter with the cat burglar, and the sexual tension that built over the years was more than apparent without Alfred's ever seeing them together.

_First: Do no harm._

What did he expect to happen now that he'd thrust them together for a long weekend at a remote, idyllic resort? Sex, obviously.

_First: Do no harm._

But there was no reason to believe Bruce would overturn his intention to keep his identity a secret.

Alfred concealed any sign of surprise or alarm, and offered Bruce and Selina tea.

"Oh no," Bruce said quickly. "We don't want to make you work. I just wanted Selina to meet you. Take your time here, I'm not even back as far as you're concerned. I'm going to give her the rest of the tour, and we'll wind up downstairs."

"Very good, sir," Alfred said formally. "A pleasure to meet you, miss."

Alfred could see Bruce's attention had obviously moved on to the next thing, "the tour" presumably, but this Selina met Alfred's eyes with a pleasant curiosity.

"What are you baking?" she asked, half-nodding at the empty bowl of batter.

"Chocolate chip scones, miss. Also an assortment of turnovers, cheese straws, pasties..." he began pointing to the plates of cooling delicacies. "And a few cutlets."

His attention drawn to the food, Bruce helped himself to a turnover. He said it was delicious. Then he steered Selina out of the kitchen, his hand grazing her hip as they went… leaving Alfred to ponder. He was not so old that he didn't remember the heady physical infatuation in the first days of a love affair. Clearly, years of Batman and Catwoman physicality on rooftops did not negate that magnetic draw to a new lover's body. As a _butler_, that was absolutely none of Alfred's business, other than it necessitated certain precautions before entering a room that he'd never had to worry about before in the service of this particular employer.

But Alfred was a great deal more than Bruce Wayne's _ butler_, and it was that part of him who served as teacher, doctor, confidant, father confessor, and most recently, interfering matchmaker which didn't know what to make of this.

Initially, he'd viewed Bruce's obvious weakness for the cat burglar with concern. Being physically and emotionally drawn to an enemy is inherently dangerous. It was many years later that Master Dick dismissed that worry, laughing that Catwoman was every bit as taken with Batman as he was with her. In that moment of revelation, another aspect of the matter suddenly clarified in Alfred's mind:

The boy he knew as Doctor Wayne's son Bruce had slowly disappeared into this Batman. But there was no "Mission" in his attraction to the cat burglar. There was no crimefighting in it, no justice, and no Bat. It was the yearning of a man, and for years, the only sign there had really been of Batman's core humanity. Alfred had been distracted by his concern that Catwoman might take advantage of the weakness and harm him. Now that that worry was removed, he realized he'd been cherishing that spark of humanity gleaming under all Batman's scowling denials.

Alfred found himself staring at a plate of turnovers, then at the door where Bruce had left the kitchen. On the one hand, there it was: prophesy fulfilled. Bruce hadn't even _noticed_ the food until Selina asked about it, but after her chance remark…

On the other hand, he had gone away planning to keep his identity a secret, and after a few days alone with her, came back parading her into the kitchen and was giving her—the most notorious thief in the country—a tour of the manor. It might be possible for Batman to be a bit _too_ human underneath. A reverse of the earlier phenomenon occurred, with the worry for Bruce's safety blotting out any satisfaction in his emerging humanity. Alfred decided he could no longer trust a teenage Robin's judgment of Catwoman's feelings, whatever they might be. He would have to talk to her himself.

* * *

***Years Later***

* * *

"Hey, Alfred," Selina called moments before the kitchen door swung open. "We're home. Early, I know, but don't worry. We're not officially here until tonight, so don't worry about dinner plans or anything like that. I'm just going to unpack and give Whiskers and Nutmeg their presents, then catch up with him in town."

"Miss Selina?" Alfred said, unflappable as always, although another man would have at least gasped at the unexpected entrance of one he thought out of the country. "When last I checked, Wayne One is equipped with no fewer than fourteen methods of communicating with the surface. Surely in the course of a seven hour flight, you could have sent word."

"I'm sorry, Alfred. He's incredibly worked up. Big breakthrough in London. He says he's been working on the mystery for ten years. We found the source—the _original_ source—of all Jonathan Crane's chemical formulas. He didn't want to waste any time, so we pushed up our departure and he was hard at work the whole flight. He's gone straight to the satellite cave. I'm not even sure he's going to patrol tonight if he's on a roll."

Alfred's eyes narrowed in a way that was slightly reminiscent of Batman confronted with a dubious alibi.

"I see, miss. And while Master Bruce was thus occupied, you yourself were incapacitated by a debilitating fear of telephones?"

Catlike, Selina _pffted_ off the rebuke as she would Batman's rooftop censures about other people's property.

"I was excited, too," she shrugged without apology. "I haven't seen him like that for a long time. I don't think he's been that excited since the Sherlock Holmes exhibit at the folklore museum."

"I see, miss," Alfred repeated with a humoring smile. "In that case, if you will permit me to assist with your unpacking—"

"Oh, no, no," Selina interrupted. "There are more presents in the luggage besides Whiskers and Nutmeg's, but he'll want to give you that himself. So no touching."

"Very well, miss. While you unpack, I shall prepare you a picnic basket, so you may both enjoy a proper dinner. If you can get him up to the penthouse, there will be a braised chicken. If you cannot, I will enclose an assortment of cold cutlets."

* * *

* * *

* * *

Alfred guessed that "the tour" Bruce was giving would conclude in the Batcave. He thought he'd allowed ample time for touring the public rooms on the ground floor, then proceeding to the cave, viewing the central cavern, gymnasium, chemistry lab, medical, Batmobile hangar, and trophy room. But when he brought a tray of refreshments down to the cave, Bruce and Selina were still in the main chamber. Bruce was seated at his workstation, with footage of a leopard grooming her cubs on the giant viewscreen.

"I can't believe it," Selina giggled in delight. "It's the raw footage from Big Cat Diary. Those are Half-Tail's new cubs, they weren't born last season. How could you possibly—this hasn't aired yet."

"That's what you asked for," Bruce graveled.

"I didn't think you could actually _do it_. You wanted a dare. How could you possibly… Wait, don't say it."

"I'm Batman."

"Walked right into it."

Alfred withdrew quietly, Bruce's explanation of the auto-downloads fading into the distance as he left.

"Massive amounts of data are downloaded each night from various sources, then sifted, categorized, and indexed… I never would have found it that fast without it already being in the system… all of this material originally tagged for keywords related to Doctor Minerva, then the auxiliary filters catch outlying factors." "Like Amber being a real cheetah instead of a bipolar anthropologist with bloodlust issues." "Yes, like that."

Eventually, Bruce returned to the kitchen, alone this time and later than Alfred would have expected, considering Batman had been away from Gotham for several days. Alfred knew he would be anxious to get back in action. Bruce said he was giving Selina a ride back to the city and he would "go from there," i.e. suit up in the satellite cave. He left through the kitchen door to bring the Porsche around. It was a shorter walk to the garage, which meant Selina would be waiting alone out front, giving Alfred the opening he'd been waiting for to speak to her privately.

"I thought you might like to take some scones with you," he began—and Selina started before turning slowly to face him.

"That's where he gets it," she said, her eyes wide.

"I beg your pardon, miss?"

"Nothing. It's been a weekend of soul-splitting shocks and surprises, I'm building up a tolerance."

"I see, miss."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, then Alfred repeated his offer of scones, and handed over a small plate covered in foil.

"Thank you," Selina said shyly.

"If I may say, miss, you are not quite what one expected."

"See above, lots of… really… hard to process shocks in the last few days. This isn't really me, this is 'just walked out of the Batcave' me… And 'just walked out of the Batcave' Selina is new to me, too."

"I imagine it is a very foreign world in which you find yourself, miss. But not as foreign to you as it would be to most."

"No, I suppose not," she smiled.

"Indeed, your _history_ with Master Bruce dates back much longer than any woman he has seen socially."

"I… suppose," Selina said, uncertainly. "Except it wasn't exactly a social relationship. And it wasn't exactly with Bruce."

"Wasn't it?" Alfred asked sharply.

Selina tilted her head at the change of tone. Vaguely hostile, but here at last was something solid she could grab onto, find some stability in this whirlwind she'd been caught in since "My name is Bruce".

"Hell, I don't know," she said, each word charged with a strange emphasis... "I don't know anything at this point," …a helpless but emphatic surrender to raw confusion.

Alfred was taken aback. He meant to challenge her, and he'd obviously achieved a result. But the result was… What was this woman saying?

"He, he had footage down there," she gestured helplessly towards the ground, as if pointing uncertainly in the direction of the cave. "Half-Tail the leopard from Big Cat Diary… First season, experts were totally flummoxed, because leopards are solitary. When they hunt, when they prowl, when they mark out their territories… Experts study these animals for _decades_ and come away with a thorough understanding of the species—that's totally wrong. No, not… It's not 'wrong' exactly, but it's laughably incomplete. Because it's only when you see leopards with other leopards that their playfulness comes out. And that never happens except when they've got a litter, and they hide those cubs. The 'experts' that imagine they know everything there is to know never see that behavior, so it doesn't fit their ideas of what leopards do, and… Oh my god, I sound like a total Arkham case, don't I?"

"Not at all, miss, you sound like a young woman with a passionate interest in leopards, who is, perhaps, a little overtired and should spend the evening relaxing with a plate of fresh scones and a pot of hot tea."

"Hot tea," Selina blinked.

"Yes, miss. For future reference, might one inquire what kind of teas you enjoy?"

"Oh, um, Darjeeling's my favorite. Or Earl Gray, whatever you have, really," Selina said simply.

Alfred beamed. He had seen ghastly herbal blends in the corner of Harriman's Gourmet Pantry, and was fully expecting her to request "catnip" or "catnip and chamomile" or some similar abomination.

"Very good, miss," he nodded. Then he studied her for a moment more. On the one hand, she had said nothing to confirm his fears, but she hadn't said anything to dispel them either. He decided a direct approach was called for.

"I don't know if Master Bruce informed you that I have been with the Wayne family for many years. I served his parents," he began.

"He didn't have to tell me," Selina interrupted. "He calls you Alfred. Our housekeeper was Sarah. And, I haven't seen her since I was twelve, but I know if I saw her today, my tongue would snap off before I could call her 'Walsh' like my parents did."

"I see, miss." Alfred could think of very few reasons a young person might not have seen a family servant for many years, and only one of those would freeze the age they were in the young person's mind. It was not something he would normally ask. As a butler, it was not his place to be so inquisitive. But he had left the role of butler in the kitchen. "Your parents, miss…" he said gently.

She nodded.

"Like his. He was ten, I was twelve. Not violent, but it hurts just as much."

"I am very sorry, miss."

That was that. On her next visit, Alfred would have some estate reserve Darjeeling.

* * *

* * *

* * *

With Selina doing the unpacking after the London trip, and none of Bruce's clothing to collect from the cave, Alfred settled into his pantry for his end-of-day routine much earlier than usual. It was too early for his customary hot milk, so he'd made a small pot of tea. He had just powered up the laptop to print out Master Bruce's schedule for the following day, when he heard a soft noise coming from the kitchen.

Thinking it was Miss Nutmeg, who often joined him for this nightly ritual, he reached out to push the door open wider. Through it, he saw a much larger cat had snuck into the kitchen. For her part, Catwoman saw the additional light streaming in from the pantry.

"Caught me," she smiled. "I was just returning the picnic basket. The cutlets were very good."

"Ah, I confess I thought that would be the case."

"It's who he is, Alfred. He wasn't going to leave that lab for anything less than an Arkham outbreak. But glass half full: he isn't going to be there 'til dawn. He's already put the Scarecrow stuff to bed for the night. He's getting a quick patrol in, but then he's coming home—_early_, acknowledging time zones and jetlag. Tell me that's not progress."

* * *

* * *

* * *

Alfred was startled by the knock at the kitchen door. Guests to the manor always used the front entrance, where Alfred could observe them on the closed circuit cameras, and if necessary, interview them over the intercom about their business on the property before making the trek to the front door. The only people who used the kitchen door were Masters Bruce and Dick, who both had keys.

Alfred opened the curtains curiously and saw it was Miss Selina.

"I brought your plate back," she announced with a bright smile as he opened the door. "The scones were really wonderful."

"How good of you to say, miss," Alfred murmured as he ushered her in. "But I do hope you did not make a special trip."

"I've been trying for days to get it back to you. Won't fit in my purse when Bruce takes me to d'Annunzio's, will fit in my loot satchel if I pretend it's a Maya artifact—but then it wouldn't fit in his belt. Plus, I don't think he'd see the funny if I gave him something like that to bring home. It was easier to just drive out here myself."

"Indeed, miss." Alfred nodded, sensing that this entertaining tale was a well-designed subterfuge.

"How is Bruce?" she asked casually.

"I regret he is not at home, miss. A board meeting for the foundation."

"I know, he did mention it last night. I meant more in general. How is he?"

"Miss?"

"Alfred, I know I'm new to this side of his life, but I do know the other side. Like, I know that cowl is reinforced but there's a limit. I mean, if he gets hit hard enough, he'll fall down, even pass out."

"Ah, I begin to understand," Alfred said dryly. "Last night, Master Bruce took you to The Bristol Country Club, did he not?"

Selina nodded.

"At establishments of that kind, Master Bruce is apt to run into old school friends, miss. Young ladies with whom he was at dancing school, those he escorted to debutante balls, in short, the circle into which he was born, the friends of his late parents and their children."

"Yes, I get that, he introduced me to several. But Alfred, he seemed to think Scandinavia was a country and Yugoslavia wasn't. And then he confused Los Alamos with The Alamo, and when my oysters came, he sort of… _babbled_ about them. We had a history of the oyster from Ancient Rome up through Casanova, including a treatise on its reputation as an aphrodisiac, how pearls are made, mating habits of the oyster, the small crabs that share their shells. It was… pretty creepy."

"Yes, miss. You encountered the fop."

"The fop," she repeated dully.

"Yes, miss. Master Bruce thinks it prudent to conceal his intelligence, as well as other qualities he shares with Batman. Most of the time, this camouflage is measured, but when he is surrounded by those who knew him in earlier days when he was unguarded, he is sometimes apt to overcompensate."

"Mhm," Selina said tersely. "So he didn't hit his head, he doesn't have a concussion, he hasn't got some Brainiac microchip frying his synapses. He does it on purpose."

"It can be difficult for one who knows his true character to see him present such a regrettable figure to the world," Alfred said diplomatically, "but yes, it is done on purpose."

"Jackass," Selina said under her breath.

"Miss?"

"Nothing," she smiled. "You know it's funny, I've seen him over the years at parties and gallery openings, been to a couple Wayne fundraisers, he never came off that way. I mean, he was with some real ditzypoofs on a few of those occasions, and I guess if I heard him say anything dumb, I must have chalked it up to that. Playing down to the bimbo on his arm…"

"That is unusual, miss. You gave him the benefit of the doubt. Not many do."

Selina looked off to the side thoughtfully, remembering.

"I guess I did. Even when people said things about him, I… I guess I shrugged it off."

It was perfectly obvious to Alfred that, knowing Batman as well as she did, she must have sensed something in Bruce Wayne, sensed his true qualities under the sham of the fop. But it was also perfectly obvious that she rivaled Master Bruce when it came to denial. If she had been performing the same mental contortions he had over the years, a light touch was certainly called for. Alfred began by offering tea, claiming he was eager to sample a new tin of estate reserve he had purchased, but would feel guilty brewing a pot of such a rare blend for himself. She saw through his subterfuge as easily as he had seen through hers, but catlike, she smiled knowingly rather than pretending she hadn't noticed.

The tea was soon brewed and more scones set out, lemon poppyseed this time, which Alfred preferred. As Selina sipped, he studied her.

"You are still quite different from what one expected, miss," he said bluntly.

"And what did 'one expect'?" Selina asked playfully, as if accepting a dare. "Hissing and scratching at table?"

"No miss, no shortcomings of that kind. As I told you the last time we spoke, I have known Master Bruce for many years, literally from the day his name was inscribed in the family bible. I daresay I know him better than anyone, and I have a good idea what qualities a woman must possess to capture his attention as you have.

"I would not normally make reference to the female companions Bruce Wayne has made use of to accessorize his public image. But as you have already introduced the subject, miss, I might, perhaps take advantage of the opening to underline that which you yourself noted: the young women were not conspicuously favored in the areas of intellect, sophistication, and breeding. Squandering time and money on such creatures reveals a startling lack of judgment, miss. Yet another example where Batman differs greatly from the public image he presents as Bruce Wayne.

"I knew before I met you what qualities you must have to rate Master Bruce's good opinion. When I say you are not what I expected, I do not speak of table manners or intellect. I mean, Miss Selina, that you do not strike me as a thief."

Selina set down her cup and met his eye, not angry but certainly intrigued.

"What would a thief do that I haven't?" she asked finally.

"I'm not sure," Alfred admitted. "I can tell you, returning briefly to the subject of the playboy, that Master Bruce is not the womanizer he pretends to be. A woman of your intelligence must have gleaned that the women he is photographed with so frequently are his alibi."

"Alfred, I'm the last person you have to tell that Page Six is a tissue of lies. I did a whole stage show on the subject."

"Knowing that the Post's version of things does not reflect the truth is not the same as knowing what the truth is, miss. In this case, it is true the master deliberately projects the image of a womanizing playboy. It is true he does this so the world believes it knows how Bruce Wayne spends his nights. You are now aware what he really does with his time, but that is not the same as… Miss Selina, Master Bruce does not welcome intimacy. He is slow to reveal his true nature, and I am not referring only to Batman. He is reluctant to speak his thoughts or to share his feelings. Yet you, he has invited into his life, into his secrets."

"Ah, I think I see where this is going. 'A thief' takes what isn't given, is that it? A thief would be taking advantage of the unlocked door, coolly filling her bag with all she could get?"

"Yes, miss. I suppose that is the essence of the matter."

"How do you know I'm not?" she asked.

"Again, I am not sure," Alfred said, sitting back with a piercing stare, as if from this angle he could see into her soul. "But you aren't."

"And that's why I get tea," Selina said, sounding as if she was placing a piece into jigsaw puzzle. "Okay then," she nodded suddenly. "No concussion, no Brainiac chip… _Fop_. No ditzypoof, no coldhearted, thieving bitch… Tea. I think I'm getting the hang of it. You're both very strange, but that's okay, 'cause it's a lovable strange, and normal is overrated anyway."

She grinned, Cheshire style. And Alfred scowled, Bat style.

"Miss Selina, in the course of serving Master Bruce, I have stitched up and salved every injury and contusion a body may suffer, but there is one I would not have the first notion how to treat."

"A broken heart," she declared, anticipating him. "Alfred, I love him, I wouldn't hurt him for the world. For the record, my heart can break too."

"Perhaps that is the quality I did not expect, miss."

* * *

***

* * *

Many things had changed since Miss Selina moved into the manor, but Alfred still left his bedroom door open. It was psychological. He couldn't actually hear anything in the distant cave. If Master Bruce returned injured, the auto-alerts in the Batmobile would inform him that the car was returning on autopilot, and if Master Bruce returned on his own power but still required assistance, he would use the intercom. There was no logical need to leave the door open, Alfred simply felt better for doing it.

Tonight, he was glad he did, for if he hadn't, he would have missed the extraordinary spectacle: the creak of the fourth step from the top of the main staircase, one step on the hardwood floor of the landing and soft brush of a heavy wooden door against the edge of the too-thick hallway rug. All these registered in his subconscious: Master Bruce was home, Alfred did not even notice that he noticed. He didn't look up from his book… until the next sound deviated from the well-known script. Rather than the faint gargle of water through pipe, Alfred heard the heavy door open again. He glanced down the hall, and saw Master Bruce—still in costume, minus the cape, cowl, and gloves—exiting his bedroom with a number of shopping bags. He turned and walked up the hall towards Alfred's room.

"Knock, knock," he said, rapping lightly on the door frame. "I saw your light was on. Figured we should talk now, since I'll probably sleep through tomorrow. I need to get back on Gotham time before the board meeting Thursday."

"Welcome home, sir," Alfred said warmly. "I do apologize for the oversight, I see you had no change of clothes in the cave."

Bruce dismissed that nonsense with a grunt, and started pulling boxes from the shopping bags and stacking them on Alfred's bed.

"The top one is from Selina," he pointed. "I mention it because she went shopping in the arcade while I was getting fitted for my suits. I trust you see the significance."

"Burlington Arcade, sir?" Alfred said, pulling a magnificent cashmere sweater from an elegant box with the simple label: Berk.

Bruce grunted. Nothing more needed to be said. The arcade contained a half dozen of the most prestigious jewelers in Europe. Selina bypassed them and went into Berk Cashmere to buy Alfred a sweater.

"I shall thank her appropriately," Alfred said with a hint of a blush.

* * *

...to be continued...


	2. p4R4ll3l m4yH3m

**Do No Harm  
**Chapter 2: p4R4ll3l m4yH3m

* * *

Oracle saw the blip of Robin's GPS heading for her building, so she activated the hologram at the window. If anyone happened to be watching, they would see the vigilante vanish from view and assume he had swung behind the building.

"Hey, Babs," was the predictable greeting, followed by the equally predictable, "Ooh, cold pizza. Mind if I…?"

"Sure," Barbara nodded, putting several monitors on auto-scan. "You have a disk for me?"

"Yep, those are all the backups for the guidance system Radii-e is developing the week _before_ it was taken. Agent Brosk thought we could compare it to the version that was recovered and see if anything was added."

He handed over a thumb drive that was no larger than a thumbnail.

"This is new," Barbara remarked, flipping over the slip of black plastic, affixed with a tiny, raised, silver bat silhouette.

"Prototype. B says we'll get the real ones next month, same time as the WayneTech release."

"Ah," Barbara hid her grin as she slid the drive into her USB port. "The analysis will take twenty minutes or so. Will that be enough time?"

"Time for what?" Tim asked innocently.

"Come off it, Wonder Boy. You could have uploaded these files from the Redbird, they didn't need to be walked in on a disk. So what did you want to see me about?"

"Busted, huh? Okay, well, it's this paper I'm working on, on the sociology of superheroes."

"Stop right there. Tim, you know that none of us are supposed to talk to you for that class. I agree with Bruce on this one; you shouldn't be taking it. You know too much as Robin that you shouldn't know as Tim Drake. Just look at this disk you brought me, that's a master's thesis right there, but there is just no way---"

"Whoa, no, timeout, flag on the play, hold."

"Hold?"

"I'm just trying to get a word in edgewise, Barbara. I'm not here to 'interview' Oracle or ask what it's like working with Batman—or his far more interesting and talented sidekicks."

He smiled his most charming smile, and Barbara answered with a skeptical raised-eyebrow glare.

"I wanted to ask your help as a librarian," Tim said seriously. "See, Randy-quad is taking this media studies course where they're watching reality shows."

"Media studies? Reality shows? Sociology of superheroes? Whatever happened to calculus, chemistry, macroeconomics, and English composition?"

"We've got those too, but this is good, listen. UK series takes this modern family and plops them into a Victorian house, makes them live like it's 1900, washing their hair with egg whites and stuff. And they've got all this source material: newspapers and diaries from the period. So when they find some mention of, like, fish 'n chips, they can go out and eat that. Find an entry where some women were starting to complain about wearing corsets, or some doctor is saying they might be detrimental to breathing, the wife and daughter don't have to wear the corsets anymore."

"Ah, I get it. So you're thinking as long as you can find a quote or a citation for whatever it is you want to say in your paper…"

"Then I can reference it, yeah! Tim Drake doesn't know anything more about superheroes than any other freshman with a library card."

Barbara bit her lip, thinking it over.

"Okay," she said finally. "I guess I can squeeze in a search here and there, in a good cause. If you let me know the subject you're looking for, I can point you in the right direction."

"You rock!" Tim declared.

* * *

*** Years Before***

* * *

Batman made a wide sweep of the block before approaching the window of Barbara's new co-op. From an identity-guarding standpoint, he preferred her old location at the Clocktower, but he reluctantly accepted the fact that she would live wherever she liked, regardless of what he thought was best.

He handed over a CD-ROM:

"All the data on the Russian mob's progression from check cashing to Medicare fraud to identity theft in L.A., Star City, Philadelphia, Detroit, and Metropolis."

"Check," Barbara said, inserting it into the waiting drive. "I'll run it against the backscatter from the operation here. It'll take a few hours, but it should give us a good idea what local talent they'll try to recruit. If we can anticipate them, you can be waiting. Shut 'em down in the transition phase."

Batman grunted.

"Now the real reason you're here?" Barbara said. "Not like I couldn't have pulled all this off the League mainframe."

Batman scowled, nodded, and then, incredibly, he said "There is something I thought I should tell you face to face." This while carefully removing his cowl, which made Barbara purse her lips. Whatever was coming couldn't possibly be good. What the hell could it be now? More protocol backlash? Another fight with Nightwing? Or maybe her father's replacement reached a decision about the Batsignal.

Bruce had tilted his shoulders forward to create the needed slack in his cape as he sat, and took the seat next to her.

"I've been seeing Selina Kyle," he said simply. "Catwoman. And it's become serious enough that I told her my identity. Now, by implication, that revealed Dick's. You and Tim are not exposed, but you need to be aware of the situation. If you're guests at the manor or interacting with Bruce Wayne, and you don't want to be comp—"

"Not an issue," Barbara interrupted. "Catwoman's known my identity for quite some time."

Bruce's head snapped back slightly as if evading a punch, then his jaw clenched, his eyes darkened, and his entire body, though still seated, seemed to grow larger and denser. Barbara could almost imagine the outline of the cowl reemerging on his face.

"Explain," he graveled.

"It was about a year after I started functioning as Oracle. You know how the feds like to impress captured hackers into service once they've caught them. Dangle the threat of prosecution, force them to work on cases. They targeted me. Operation: Sibyl Snare."

"Why am I only hearing about this now?"

"Because you tried hacking into my security, Bruce. Remember? Checking up on me, making sure I could 'handle the stress' of being Oracle. If you've forgotten, I still have the lovely digital photos from when I turned the tables on you. After all that, after I let you watch and think you were pulling one over on me and _then_ let you have it… After that, there was no way I could come to you with a problem I couldn't handle."

"Go on," he ordered.

"In a way, it was very liberating. Since I couldn't go to you with 'a problem I couldn't handle', I _did_ have to handle it. Myself. Solo. Independent—a lot more independent than I'd ever been as Batgirl. Looking back, that might have been the point where I faced some hard truths about that part of my life.

"Anyway, I had a problem and I had to tackle it myself. The feds had one of their tamed hackers working on something to get me. And because they knew their target was a creature of grid, they were keeping this thing completely isolated: paper reports, physical disks, the guy working on it was restricted to one computer unconnected to any network. It was like the damn thing was designed to taunt me. Everything physical, non-digital, the essence of what I couldn't do anymore.

"It was the idea of being 'independent', I thought of Catwoman. I figured if anybody would understand, she would. I had to do this myself, and I couldn't do it 'in person'. Her computer I could hack into. Well, in roundabout way. You had a 93% probable on a fence she used in Belgium."

* * *

*** Years Before That***

* * *

"Nutmeg, stop," Selina squealed, jostling the laptop as she pulled the new kitten's needle-claws from her neck. "Look, you little princess, I know you want something warm and mom-size to nap on, and right now my shoulder is it. And that's fine as long as you don't stab me while I read my emai… What is that?"

The screen had darkened, so the email Selina was reading appeared as faint watermark in the darkest gray against near-black. On top of this, columns of glowing green data began to fall down the screen like rain: 1s and 0s, Japanese kanji, chemical symbols and glyphs. Through the slow rain of data, an illuminated head emerged, a head the uninitiated might call an alien, but which Selina recognized as Oracle.

_:: Catwoman? :: _it said—a female voice, Selina noted. Most people in the know assumed Oracle was male, except for the few that insisted it was an A.I.

A white, semi-transparent text field opened up underneath the head, with a flashing cursor.

_ Um, yeah,_ Selina typed. _ How did you get in here?_

_:: There are a lot of things I can do, and a lot of things I can't,:: _Oracle answered._ :: I need you for one of the things I can't.::_

_ If you need me for anything, then you need to give better answers than that. HOW did you get in here?_

_:: Igor Fabricant. He has your email, so… get into his computer, get into yours. ::_

_ Thanks for finding the hole, I'll close it soon. Now, what can I do for you?_

_:: I need your help acquiring some information from a secure facility. Hard copy reports, probably a CD or two._

"Of course, what else would Oracle be after," Selina asked the cat on her shoulder. "A Monet?" But she typed a different question:

_ What are these disks and who has them? _

_:: The who is easy: FBI. You're not squeamish about breaking into federal agencies, right?::_

_ Just mice, dear. Mice in bad haircuts. And the disks?_

_:: That's what I'm hoping to find out. ::_

_ Before we go any further, you know I don't work for free, right?_

_:: I am WELL aware of that. I get funding for the things I need through a... a private donor, if you know what I mean. ::_

* * *

* * *

* * *

_"_I see," Bruce glowered. "So you hired her. With my money. I paid for Catwoman to break into FBI headquarters."

"Well, she gave me a big discount since I could supply her with all the blueprints on the physical layout. Electrical, gas, water and HVAC, plus some internal activity memos so she'd know what floors had an international scope—those are still occupied after normal business hours, as a rule, because of all the overseas offices they work with—when the third shift security clocked in, who had the custodial contract, that kind of thing. Left the whole bundle, along with a special com unit, for her to pick up at the main post office. She was thrilled. Said I was the best commission she'd ever had. Took thirty percent off the top for saving her so much trouble."

Bruce closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a headache.

"Go on," he said finally.

"Well, like I said, she gave me this discount, but it was more than that. She… she really seemed to get on board with the whole thing. Like she wasn't just some hired help I brought in for the break-in alone. My problem became her problem…"

* * *

* * *

* * *

"These offices are nice" Catwoman purred into the com on reaching the 9th floor. "All the other levels, they're like a movie set of cold, impersonal cube farms. But this…"

_:: Describe it,:: _the cool, Oracle voice said calmly… at least, what had always been a cool Oracle voice. This time Catwoman heard something else, something tense and coiled underneath the calm veneer.

"The floor dIrectory says Cyber-terrorism, Identity Theft, and—"

_:: I know that,:: Oracle _spat fiercely. Then she composed herself. _ :: Catwoman, listen, what you're looking at right now is like—like Scarecrow toxin, okay? It's my worst case scenario. If this doesn't work, I wind up there. They shut me down and I wind up in that office. They call it 'recruiting specialized skill sets,' but I'm sure I don't have to tell you, a job offered with the threat of criminal prosecution hanging over your head isn't a job, it's indentured servitude. So I need you, I need you, to tell me exactly what you see. Be as brutal as possible. I want a clear picture in my mind of what I'm fighting to stay out of.::_

_"…"_

_:: Catwoman? ::_

"…"

_:: Catwoman? ::_

"I'm here… um… okay, I would say the feds treat their tamed hackers like any keeper would treat an exotic creature they'd captured and domesticated. They've made a cage to resemble the creature's natural habitat. Instead of white and gray, the cubicles are orange and yellow and green and purple. Instead of the straight rows on other floors, they're arranged in an oval around a bin of Twinkies."

_:: Twinkies? :: _Oracle said weakly.

"You wanted it brutal. There's also an old-fashioned popcorn machine and a big plush Dilbert."

_:: Oh god. ::_

"Oracle, listen to me, you did the right thing. You came to me, and we are not going to let you wind up here, you hear me?"

_:: Right. Sorry. I'm sorry, Catwoman, I just… had to look into the mouth of the beast. Let's get back to work. ::_

"Already there. There are only two offices with actual honest-to-god walls, that's got to be the supervisors. Two offices, fifty-fifty chance getting it on the first try, and here you are, three reports down in his outbox. Operation: Sibyl Snare."

* * *

"She scanned the report and transmitted it to me. It was bad. The hacker they had was Parallel Mayhem, hacked the NASA mainframe, Sun Systems, LexCorp, Citibank. Real name: Isaac Cummings. They had him developing a worm that could infect every computer in the city within a few days, and when I connected to any infected machine, it would do a lot more than give them my location. It would create a subvirt, a virtual machine running underneath my system. Once they had that in place, finding my physical whereabouts was nothing. They could see everything I saw, even feed me bogus information as if it was coming right off my own software.

"I knew I had to get my hands on the code to create the proper countermeasures. Catwoman would have to go back in, bring me the disk, wait around for me to create the countermeasures, and then return the disk."

"Unacceptable," Bruce said, shaking his head as if he was discussing a current mission. "The whole notion of the worm could be a ploy to get you to bring a physical disk into the heart of your operation and trace you that way."

"That's exactly what Catwoman said."

* * *

* * *

* * *

_:: Oracle, look, I don't want to tell you your business, so let me tell you about mine. You tell me to pick up a package full of blueprints at the post office, I don't bring that home. I get a room at the Hyatt and look it over there. I haven't been home since I picked up this com and the rest of the stuff you sent, and I don't plan on going home until it's at the bottom of the Hudson River. You sensing a theme here? ::_

"That you're as cautious-slash-paranoid as Batman? Yes, Catwoman, I get that, but I don't have that luxury. I need serious computer horsepower to break down and counter program that worm. Normally, I could tap into my systems from anywhere: a laptop in a coffee shop, hotel wireless, even an internet café. But the nature of _this_ thing, I wouldn't dare insert that disk into anything but an isolated machine."

_:: Okay fine, tell me what you need, I'll get the equipment and set it up. ::_

"You'll 'get' a WayneTech supercomputer," she said sarcastically. "You'll just up and 'get' an X1E with a T-5 core and CX-1 clusters?"

_:: Oracle, I don't think you get what this whole 'hiring Catwoman' thing entails. You've got the best here. Your needs just expanded to include—what was it—A WayneTech X1E with a T-5 core and CX clusters? So now it's part of the job. That's what you're paying me for, get it? ::_

"So instead of going back in, getting the disks and bringing them to me here for a few hours, then taking them back, you're going set up an alternate location with all the equipment I need, and bring the disks there."

_:: Right.::_

"…"

_:: Oracle?::_

"If that's the case, I have one additional stipulation," she said finally.

_:: Yes, your thirty percent discount still app— ::_

"Wheelchair accessible. Your alternate location, it has to be fully accessible."

__

:: Oh. I see. No problem.::

* * *

* * *

* * *

"At that point, it seemed petty to show up wearing a mask," Barbara concluded. "I hadn't decided how I was going to handle her coming to the Clocktower. I could have kept her isolated, 'pass the disk through a slot' kind of thing, wait in the elevator, keep her busy with layers of redundant security if she tried to satisfy her curiosity. Even that seemed petty, considering what she was doing to save my neck."

"For money," Bruce pointed out.

"I know, but still. Anyway, once she went that far, offering to set up this whole alternate location fully equipped with everything I needed, I just couldn't bring myself to hide under a wig and a mask—that she might well see through anyway. Not like the shooting didn't get enough press at the time. So I went as I am, no disguises, and she recognized me. She was even polite enough to say it was from some pictures taken with my father at the Police Benevolent Association events, instead of, you know… Anyway, that was it. It took almost four hours to break the encryptions, write a 'vaccine' to counteract the worm, and insert a back door."

Psychobat seethed. The sheer tonnage of what he hadn't known, what he had no glimmer of: one of his own operatives targeted, taking it upon herself to deal with the situation behind his back and without his knowledge—by employing one of his ENEMIES, no less. Recent developments aside, Catwoman was a criminal, a thief, and that Barbara would turn to her instead of… and then deciding to reveal her identity. It was absolutely…

"I want to see every scrap of information you have on this Isaac Cummings," he graveled.

* * *

*** YEARS AFTER THAT ***

* * *

"Out of curiosity, what did you mean about there being a masters in the disk I brought?" Tim asked, finishing a second slice of pizza.

Barbara pulled the miniature thumb drive from her USB port, looked over her desk until she found a similar piece of plastic, and laid the two side-by-side in her outstretched palm.

"That's a Sony microdrive," she said, pointing to the green drive with the word "Sony" embossed in the plastic in place of the silver bat emblem. "They've been out for a couple years now. Selina used one on a case a few months back. All of a sudden, _viola_, WayneTech comes out with its own, just a few millimeters thinner than the Sony, and two gig bigger. Master's dissertation at the very least. Possibly a doctorate."

* * *

Bruce stopped at the Gordon-Grayson home after his board meeting. He delivered a Harrod's tote for Barbara and a tie he'd bought Dick on Savile Row, then he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a microdrive identical to the one Tim had brought, except it was blue instead of black, and bore the WayneTech logo instead of the bat emblem.

"This is new," Barbara said, pretending she hadn't seen one before. "Thinner than Sony's."

"And two gig larger," Bruce graveled. "It's the encryption keys for the new partition I set up on the Batcomputer."

"Yeah, I saw that," Barbara smiled. "K3M-W4R-CR4N3, Chemical warfare Crane?"

Bruce's lip twitched.

"Very good," he said, making himself comfortable on the sofa. "I must admit, when LexCorp tanked, I only bought those tech divisions to save jobs in… Metropolis. I never… expected them to produce… We have a problem here," he said abruptly, shifting on the sofa and bending so he could look underneath.

_Hhhhhhhheeeeeehhhhhhhhhh_

A wave of hot, hostile breath hit his face, and the hissing little cat who had been fiercely pawing at his shoe now took a brave swipe at his nose.

"Bytes, no," Barbara cried, wheeling over. "Here, hand him over. It's funny, he's usually such a sweetie with strangers."

Bruce scowled. Just like Clark making excuses Krypto.

"We're not exactly strangers," he noted. "First time we met, that thing was in a green box covered with question marks, remember?"

"Hm, I guess there could be some bad associations for him," Barbara murmured, stroking Bytes fur as if he was the injured party.

Bruce grunted.

* * *

* * *

* * *

_ºº I am the stalking jungle cat of death,ºº _ Whiskers declared, eyeing his prey between the leaves of the lush jungle flora. The planter gave him the perfect cover. It was a short run from the balcony to that luscious-looking prize: the perfect size to tackle with his front paws, to clamp on tight while it struggled, and then to sink his teeth into its meaty flesh.

Selina sat sideways on the sofa, which faced the balcony so the sitter could enjoy the wonderful view of the city through the sliding glass doors. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and danged slightly over the edge of the sofa, bobbing ever so gently in time to the Miles Davis playing in the background. It was her top ankle that the jungle cat of death stalked so silently. He crouched, jostled his weight between his back feet as a prelude to pouncing, and then—his ear flicked. INTRUDER! The attack was called off as Whiskers crouched deeper into the shadows. Heavy boots landed on the balcony, and a dark cape brushed over the leaves of the lush jungle flora…

"Hey, Handsome," Selina said happily. "You're early, tonight. It's barely dark."

"I wanted to catch you before you went out," Batman graveled.

Two-Foot in Boots. It was the new two-foot who came in from the sky, the same way Selina-Cat did when she didn't use the door.

"Well you caught me," Selina said, drawing a finger playfully along the top of Batman's utility belt. "Now the real question is: what are you going to do with me?"

Whiskers walked back around the back side of the planter and peered through the leaves. Selina-Cat was no longer sitting at the sofa, but if she was, he would no longer be able to see her tasty ankle bobbing up and down. Whiskers stretched up and thrust his nose into the leaves, trying to get them back into position.

"What I'm going to do is get some answers about a hacker named Isaac Cummings."

Whiskers trotted past the pair of them and went into the bedroom. Even though he'd just passed Selina-Cat in the living room, he looked around to make sure the coast was clear before jumping up to the bed. From there, he walked across the nightstand to the vanity, and from there, leapt to the top of the cat curio. It was narrow, but he could just fit. Walking across it, he stepped down onto top of an étagère where Nutmeg liked to nap during the day. Finding her asleep, he licked her nose to wake her.

_ºº He's back. Two-Foot in Boots.ºº_

"Isaac Cummings," Selina's voice said in the distance. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

Nutmeg stretched out her paws first, then pushed the stretch up into her shoulders, and finally slid it out to her rump. At the end of this process, she was standing, but still not entirely awake. She shook out her back legs, one at a time, after which, she felt awake enough to deal with Whiskers's complaints.

_ºº Two-Foot in Boots. Dark flowy cape messed up the jungle plant. Left smelly boot print, smells like clammy damp and rock.ºº_

Nutmeg scratched behind her ear thoughtfully, then her chin.

"Oh yeah, Oracle's nuisance at the FBI. Parallel Maniac, wasn't it? Something like that?"

"Mayhem," Batman corrected. "Parallel Mayhem. His real name is Isaac Cummings. He's in Blackgate. He was working for the FBI, and a few months after a certain cat crossed his path, he's left under a cloud, the original arrest resurfaces with new counts tacked on..."

"Parallel Mayhem, that's right; that was the handle. I remember now. There was an aftermath there."

"Well?" Batman glowered.

"Well?" Selina grinned.

Waves of silent, foreboding intensity in answer to that—foreboding intensity that terrified the most hardened criminals into speaking. From Catwoman, however, it had never produced more than a purr, or occasionally a laugh.

"Since when do I tell you bedtime stories about episodes like that?" she laughed.

"It's been known to happen," Batman said flatly.

"Not without encouragement."

_ºº What should we do? He's biting Selina-Cat! ºº_

_ºº Don't be such a fraidy cat, she can bite him right back, see? ºº_

"Oracle made it sound like you were both sympathetic to Cummings. A crook with specialized skills forced to work for the feds. 'There but for the grace of getting caught…' So what changed? Why did you turn on him?"

"My special gift," Selina said. "If there's a target that's something more than it seems, if there are wheels within wheels, I will somehow stumble onto that particular artifact, condo, gallery, whatever. With Cummings, it was all just a little too uncomplicated. I mean, a worm specially designed to catch Oracle, kept isolated on physical media so she HAS to get the physical disk to work on it. I found it easily enough. I got it to her easily enough. It all went off a little too smoothly; I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. It just had to be a trap, either for her or for me or… something. It had to be more than it seemed. For two days after I couldn't sleep. Finally, yawning through a fitting at Kittlemeier's, it came to me. He had a bunch of gold question marks on his workbench, and that switched on the light bulb. Riddle me this: What _is_ a computer worm?"

_ºº What was that noise he made? Did he woof like a dog? ºº_

_ºº More like a grunt. Two-foots do that sometimes.ºº_

Selina's voice caressed each word that followed like a connoisseur speaking of a great vintage.

"A worm infiltrates a system—or gets itself brought into a system—and does its work from the inside. That's exactly what Cummings was doing. He was the real worm. He let himself be caught, knowing the feds don't send people like him to prison, they put them to work. As soon as I had that idea, the hacks he had done didn't seem so random. They were a job application. Once he's on the inside, look what they've got him doing: writing a superworm to infiltrate every computer in Gotham. He's doing it right under their noses, not just with their blessing but with their help! With their protection, for Bast's sake. It's the best cover you could hope for, to take the risks he'd have to take, make the mistakes that are bound to happen along the way, and never risk capture."

"Once the worm was deployed, it wouldn't be as benign to non-Oracle systems as the FBI thought," Batman guessed.

Selina nodded.

"That was my theory. I'm no code head like Oracle, but from what I've seen, a good hacker is just like a good thief, and that's a mindset I understand. If you can't find an exploit, you make one. What I was looking at with Cummings was the equivalent of the British government bringing me in to help revamp security in some back room of the Tower of London—and walking me right past the crown jewels twice a day in the process. That doesn't just _happen_ on its own."

"What did you do about it?"

"What makes you think I felt the need to do anything about it? I'm not a crimefighter, it has nothing to do with me."

"If every bank account in Gotham was zeroed out overnight, it would certainly… Selina, Cummings wound up in Blackgate within months of Oracle's bringing him to your attention. You seem to be the only one who was on to him. How did it come about?"

"That's my secret," she smiled.

_ºº Oh, that's just not right. ºº_

_ºº They're so tall, how can they even… ºº_

_ºº Put her down, put her down! She commands the can opener! ºº_

_ºº Woof, bed will smell like clammy damp rocky place now. ºº_

* * *

...to be continued...


	3. Full Circle

**Do No Harm  
**Chapter 3: Full Circle

* * *

Not this time. This time, Tim had a plan. You did not get to be Batman's sidekick without mastering the fine art of learning from your mistakes. Since Selina came to live at the manor, every time Tim went to see her, she was contorting in some damn yoga posture and…

He lost his train of thought.

Right then, yoga. Not. This. Time.

This time, he was going directly down to the cave, where Bruce had surveillance feeds from all the security cameras around the manor. He'd do a quick check and make sure she was brushing her cats or watching TV or doing whatever she did when she wasn't twisting and bending in that leotard…

Ho boy, lost his train of thought again. That was not a good sign.

Tim briefly reconsidered the wisdom of his plan. On the one hand, Selina Kyle was the one exception to the Bat Family's embargo on helping him with his paper. Tim Drake knew her, knew her as Tim Drake, so there was no compromising himself as Robin on that score.

* * *

*** Years Earlier***

* * *

Dana Winters Drake was not what you'd call an evil stepmother—at least, when she wasn't possessed by a cursed Ravenna amulet, and that was just the one time, so, y'know, not evil. She just… she had some really, really bad ideas when it came to food—scratch that, she had some really, really bad ideas about _nutrition_ which led to entire meals consisting of nothing a growing, red-blooded, American boy would call "food". All the brown rice and broccoli might be okay if there was a steak in sight at the end of it, but there wasn't. It was always more pine nuts and lentils and tofu, or the occasional Proteins Gone Wild spree with halibut and beef livers that made you nostalgic for the lentils and tofu. Nothing a normal person considered, y'know, _food_.

That was the best thing about Bruce asking Tim to come over early. It was probably for some new training before they set off on patrol, or maybe an oral debriefing on the nights Robin and 'Wing had covered for Batman. That was often the case if Bruce didn't like something he saw in the logs. Tim was always getting caught between Bruce's "my house my rules" and Dick's blowing off a proper log entry because he's the bigshot senior crimefighter now, nobody's sidekick, and he'll do it his own way. So yeah, the more Tim thought about it, this was probably going to be an inquisition on his own logs to fill in the blanks about whatever Dick left out in his. But first, Tim would get to stop in the kitchen and get a hamburger or a roast beef sandwich and some loaded potato skins. Everything a growing boy needs before taking on the dregs of Goth—Ooo.

He was just passing the door to one of the drawing rooms Bruce only used for playboy visitors and parties. The light was on, so he glanced in as he passed and—Ooo—he couldn't help but notice there was a really short dress with really long legs in there.

"Hiya," Tim said cheerily—the really short dress had a really low back too, and if anything, the curves of that back were even better than the legs... "You must be a friend of Bruc-uh, of Mr. Wayne's, I mean."

She turned, and Tim found himself looking at the most perfectly formed breasts he had ever seen in his life—quite possibly, the most perfectly formed breasts _anyone_ had ever seen in any life since the dawn of time. Thought was no longer an option. Thought beyond "don't stare at them" was really, _really_ not an option, but after a painfully dry swallow, that cautionary thought expanded to suggest he stand very close to the high-backed sofa.

"Tim Drake," he answered, hoping she had asked his name, since that was a really stupid answer if she had asked the time.

"Selina Kyle," she said—a name Tim might have recognized if she hadn't leaned forward offering her hand as she said it, which bent her chest forward a little and… and uh, uh oh, okay, ah… good move standing behind the sofa then, wasn't it? Just stay right there, don't move from the waist down, and hope she does the same. Hope—no pray—she doesn't look down or go to the window or anything—_window!_ Batsignal. Oh shit! Batsignal! That must be why she's here alone. Did she say something about Bruce having stepped out? She said something when he came in, but all he heard was "Don't stare at them"—which reminded him, he probably shouldn't have his eyeballs hanging off her nipples that way.

"Boy, Miss Kyle, I sure hope Bruce's reputation doesn't bother you," he managed. "I mean, he does have to rush off now and then, but it's not scads of busty supermodels waiting in the wings like people think. He just has so much charity work taking up so much of his time."

"You figure it's an emergency blood drive he's rushed off to at 8:15 on a Friday night?" she smiled.

"Oh. Well. I can't tell you how many times he's been at one of my father's dinner parties and had to leave suddenly to keep the funding from falling through for some halfway house or Ugandan orphanage. You know, it's business hours over there when it's night here," he added helpfully.

"Mhm," Selina agreed, biting back a smile. "Those Ugandan orphans do have a reputation for being suddenly cash poor."

"And don't get me started on the anti-child labor efforts, surprise inspections in all the Malaysian factories," Tim enthused.

"He conducts those personally, does he?"

Tim's eyes shifted around the room, trying to look anywhere except at Selina or the window.

"Tim, it's okay, he told me."

"Huh?"

"It's okay. He told me he's Batman, I know he's gone to answer the signal. He's going to call and let me know if dinner is cancelled or if it's just the new commissioner going flashlight happy again because Jervis Tetch sneezed."

"Huh? I mean, uh… Huh?"

"Much as I would love to let you keep going, just for the entertainment value, sooner or later you will find out I knew, and then you'd probably wonder why I didn't stop you after the Ugandan orphanage."

"Uh… OH! Oh my," Tim's eyes suddenly widened as he realized where, exactly, he knew those breasts from. "Uh, right, uh, no… no, no… big misunderstanding. Big. Huge misunder-he probably _told_ you that he was Batman because you were in that show, right, the Cat-Tits-TALES, Cat-_Tales_, where you were the, uh, Cat… So he might have tit you—TOLD you that he was, uh, because you might like… leaving, I'm leaving now, and I will, um, see Bruce another time, and uh… Leave message. If you see him first, just leave a message that I… died."

"Breathe, Tim, you're not breathing. That will catch up with you. The lungs rebel. Nice deep breath. Now… You saw _Cat-Tales_?"

"NO! No, of course not, I am an ordinary high school kid who doesn't get out to see a lot of live theatre. No interest in that kind of thing, especially anything about, y'know, capes, bats, who cares. No. I play video games and uh, what else do I do? Study. I study a lot. Civil war. Blue and Gray. Fort Sumter. General Lee. They lost. Bye now."

"Tim," Selina said in the calm tone used to talk someone down from a ledge. "You saw my show, and you told 'Wing you thought I should add a Harley Quinn impersonation, because you think the Marilyn Monroe squeak-laugh she does is funny. And it was. I added it the third week of the run, huge laughs every night. Thank you. That was a great suggestion."

"No, see, I'm leaving now," Tim insisted, clinging to the one clear thought that remained now that staring at Selina's breasts ceased to be a problem. "If you see Bruce…"

"I'll tell him you've died," Selina nodded, giving up.

* * *

* * * YEARS LATER * * *

* * *

Tim Drake knew Selina Kyle, and Selina Kyle did the off-Broadway show _Cat-Tales_. So whether you believed she was really Catwoman or just a really ballsy actress, the contents of that show were up for grabs as far as his paper. It was just like the Flash interview in the Keystone Star, only better, since Selina was a lot more entertaining on subjects like "the team-up". Some of that was certainly just Selina being Selina, and some of it, Tim was sure, was the fact that she didn't have to go the Watchtower the next day and sit through a League meeting with Wonder Woman.

So _Cat-Tales _was definitely the key to the section on the hero-hero and hero-villain team up, but he didn't really remember the details of her story about teaming up with Huntress. He also wanted to find out if the stories changed at all in the course of doing the show. Just because she didn't mention Robin the night he saw _Cat-Tales_ didn't mean she couldn't have added something about their team up later. It would be so perfect if there was anything about the truce they agreed to. And it's not like she didn't make little additions as the show went along. She added that Harley Quinn impression… Once again, Tim briefly lost his train of thought.

Anyway, he had to talk to her and 1) get a refresher about the Huntress team up, 2) see if she ever mentioned Robin, and then 3) get her kinda-sorta permission before he we went and cited her in his paper. Bruce's disapproval was one thing, but Bruce was going to make his life miserable no matter what. With Selina, there was that thing with the whip. Catwoman had not done the whip thing since Selina took up with Bruce, and for that, Drake generations yet unborn rejoiced.

* * *

* * *

* * *

Tim reached his room, flicked on the TV, and sat at his desk before the com went off. He had opened a textbook—Introductory French—but none of the words on the page quite penetrated his brain… Did students in Paris eat nothing but ham sandwiches? It didn't seem very likely, but the ham sandwich with cheese and the ham sandwich without cheese seemed to be the two options—as well as the focus of an absurd number of conversations… _Quelle sorte de __fromage_ aimez-vous… avec… a muffled beep drew his attention.

_:: I told you to come over early. ::_ the deep Bat-voice graveled.

"Yeah, that didn't work. You were out—" he began.

_:: You know to wait when that happens.::_

"—_and_ you had company. Boy was that a shock."

"I know." The voice sounded simultaneously in the com and at the window, then the com went dead as Batman held it up and clicked it off. "That wasn't how I intended for you to meet. You still could have waited. Gone down to the cave or met me in town."

"And _confirm _everything she was saying?! Go right down to the Batcave or, or change into—Are you crazy?! That's what she was waiting for!"

"She was waiting for me to call and tell her if our date was cancelled. Tim, this isn't how I meant to tell you, but after that show, I began seeing more of her 'off-duty'. It reached a point where… where the _division_ was no longer acceptable to me. I wanted her in both halves of my life."

"But she's Catwoman!"

"That's the half where it was always going to begin, Tim. Anything real had to start there. Look, there are details I won't discuss, but I did intend to tell you tonight and give you the option of coming upstairs to meet her face-to-face."

"Been there, done that," Tim said acidly.

Batman's lip twitched.

"Maybe you should try it again," he said simply.

Tim's eyes just bored into his.

"What about my dad, hm? Doctors say he's got another year in the chair at the very least. And he managed to get himself kidnapped and poisoned walking on two legs anyway, so what about him?"

"What about him, Tim? What happened with your parents predates your becoming Robin, it had nothing to do with masked identities."

"He's still awfully vulnerable, Bruce."

"No more than he was a week ago," Bruce said gently. "Tim, you must know I would never do anything to put your family at risk. When you became a part of this, you accepted my way of doing things and that means accepting my _judgment_. When I tell you to go around to the alley and check the back entrance, you know who is telling you, you know the lifetime of expertise and experience behind that decision. This is no different."

"Bruce, this is totally different. I mean that dress she was in. I didn't think it could get worse than that catsuit, but there they were! I'm not sure I got my name right."

This time Bruce suppressed the lip twitch before he spoke again.

"It _isn't_ any different, Tim. Not at all. My life has been protecting my identity since the day I put this mask on. Because it wasn't just my life, it was Alfred's, and later Dick's, and now yours and Barbara's and Cassie's. Revealing it is not something I'm capable of doing lightly, not in the throes of passion, not in the throes of anything. Having lived these years the way I have, it is not possible for me to have done what I did frivolously, do you understand? Now, either you trust my judgment or you don't. If you do, I would like you to come back to the house and meet Selina. If you don't, then you should do some hard thinking before you put on that costume again."

"OH COME ON! Because I'm not cool with the group hug welcoming your new girlfriend_ the cat thief!_"

"Because if you don't trust my judgment, then you shouldn't be taking my orders in the field. There is plenty of time to think now: come back to the house or don't, if and you don't, you can always meet her another time. That is not an option in the field and you know it. You do not have the time to mull it over, case by case. You have to make your decision in an instant, and if you're not happy with the result, there aren't any do-overs the next day."

"Yeah, I get that," Tim murmured. "It just… It would have been nice to have some kind of warning—and yeah, I know, stuff is always going to happen without warning, it's not a perfect world, expect the unexpected, blah blah blah…"

"You're learning," Batman said proudly.

"What was the signal lit for, anyway?"

"Victor Frieze was released from Arkham this morning. The commissioner thought I should be informed."

"Oh come on! Like we can't find that out on our own? Don't tell Barbara. God. First this dufus replaces her father, then he doesn't think Oracle is monitoring Arkham admissions and releases? She'll wipe out his credit, suspend his driver's license, and sell his mortgage to LexCorp."

"Oracle…" Batman said thoughtfully. "That's a very good idea."

"Selling the new commissioner's mortgage to LexCorp?"

"Tim, you are not invited back to the house to see Selina tonight. First, you should have a talk with Barbara."

* * *

Catwoman was every inch the predator her name implied: she hunted, she prowled her territory until she caught a whiff of something she wanted. Once she targeted her prey, she stalked it with cunning, chased it down with as much speed and tenacity as was required, and if necessary, she would fight off any competing predators, scavengers or crimefighters in order to keep what was rightly hers.

This naturally predatory spirit did not extend to the one hunt indulged in by every non-criminal in Selina Kyle's ultra-chic upper eastside neighborhood: she had never hunted down designer sample sales. She was too hippy and far too busty for most pieces stitched together for a size 0 model to walk down the runway. Plus, the one time a caper took her backstage at a fashion show, she saw firsthand the cloud of perspiration, cigarette smoke, and hairspray that permeated everything behind the scenes. The thought of wearing the castoffs from that nightmare world next to her own skin rivaled the Ratcatcher episode for disgusting gag reflex no-no. Kitty would just pick up an extra Goya the next time she was in Barcelona and go on paying retail on 57th Street, thank you very much, meow.

But then on Monday there she was, coming back from Raoul's coffee cart with her double espresso, and there was Binky Sherborn waiting at the elevator. A shared elevator with Binky often provided a few promising Catwoman targets, so Selina wasted no time getting her talking. Today's bulletins had nothing to do with soon to be ex-husbands hiding assets, however, nor did they prophesy who would be wearing Harry Winston at the next glitterati fundraiser (note to self: when The Cat goes back to business as usual, Wayne Foundation fundraisers are now off-limits). But today's Binky prattle had nothing to interest Catwoman. Binky was just enthused about the upcoming sample sales…

Now, Selina had to wonder about that: Binky couldn't wear a size 0 any more than she could. When pressed, it turned out Binky didn't go for suits, separates or evening gowns. She went for handbags and shoes.

"Manolo Blahniks for $100?" Selina gasped—in precisely the same tone she once used to thank Felix Faust for a bead of kryptonite.

"Oh that's nothing," Binky laughed—which, eerily, is exactly what Faust said. If Catwoman had only been more sympathetic about his wife not understanding him, there's no guessing what wonders he might have conjured next.

Actually, on second thought, one could guess, and the prospect wasn't nearly as appealing as what Binky was saying: the YSL sale was Wednesday, and if Selina wanted to get on the list, Binky would be happy to arrange it. Her "spies" said there would not only be the jeans, sweaters, coats, and Rive Gauche gowns (that neither woman could squeeze into), there would be "tons" of shoes and maybe a few handbags.

Selina bit her lip, thinking it over for all of six seconds. She hadn't gotten away with those cat icons from the auction house, and considering the way that confrontation ended, she wasn't going to attempt a break-in like that again any time soon. As long as things were heating up with Ba… _Bruce_. As long as things were heating up so dramatically with Bruce... Yeah, that was quite enough to handle for the moment. Batman had a face under that mask, a face that made her absolutely weak in the knees, he was as off-the-scale exceptional in bed as he was at everything else, and oh, by the way, his name was Bruce. Enough, Kitty's brain is full.

No really, Kitty's brain is _full_. No more she can handle right now, not the time go traipsing out to Queens to see how the MoMA had settled into their temporary location and how the security was around Batman's favorite Van… God, the Van Gogh. Time was, that little encounter would have been earth-shattering, that peek into the man under the mask would have kept her buzzed for a year. But now, the opera house roof, the auction house vault, his touch, his kiss, "a crimefighter loving a thief," "My name is Bruce…" Not just any Bruce, either. Bruce _Wayne_, Wayne Manor, Wayne Enterprises, Alfred the butler, "Casanova ate fifty oysters for breakfast every day, that's what made him such a sex machine" "Oh yes miss, you encountered the fop…" So much had happened since the MoMA roof, she'd completely forgotten about that Van Gogh.

Clearly, a night withdrawal from the GNB safe deposit boxes was not in her immediate future, so until she got her head on straight, a bargain spree of designer shoes might be just the thing…

* * *

* * *

* * *

Tim blinked. He double-checked the security feeds, or what _should_ have been a security feed on Monitor 8. It was supposed to be Camera G14, which would be, uh… second floor, front hall, bedrooms… Ah, well, okay, Selina's suite.

Well that was nice of her. If the world's greatest cat burglar didn't want Bruce's security cameras spying on her in her suite, she could have overridden the feed with anything. It could have been a tape loop of the room when it was empty, so you wouldn't even know you weren't looking at the live feed. She could have it duplicate the feed from another camera, the dining room or the kitchen, so it looked like a snafu in the system rather than an expert thief messing with the equipment. But of course that wouldn't be any fun for someone like Catwoman, would it?

Still, if she wanted to tweak Bruce's nose, she could have rigged it to show someone sitting at this workstation the back of his own head. Instead, it was ESPN. That was cool! Purdue kicking Star City's ass, heh. Tim sat back and watched the game for a while, keeping an intermittent eye on the other monitors in case Selina showed up. But then Purdue fumbled, Star intercepted and was running it in for a touchdown just as Bruce was coming through the study, so Tim didn't know anyone was coming down to the cave until he felt a rhythmic tap-tap on his shoulder.

"Uh, hi," he squirmed. "I was just, uh… Star City U's getting flattened."

"There's a television upstairs," Bruce pointed out.

Explanations followed, and once Tim admitted he was there to see Selina, Bruce guessed the reason.

"This is for that class you're taking—the class you know I do not approve of, and which no one on the team will help you with. You think Selina will be more accommodating, either because she isn't strictly 'Team Bat', or because she's more open about her identity."

"She's more than 'open', Bruce, she did a stage show. Anything she said in _Cat-Tales_ is as good as a quote Superman gave in the Daily Planet. It's fair game, anyone who has never set foot in this cave could know it and that means I can use it."

"Then why do you need to talk to her?" Bruce asked through clenched teeth.

"Well first, I want to clarify some stuff she said about team ups, and I kinda want to get her okay before I use it. Don't want to risk the whip thing, you know how it is."

"You're asking Selina's _permission?_ You know _ I _disapprove, but—"

"Bruce, c'mon, you're gonna make my life miserable no matter what. Selina's different. The best part of it for me since you two got together, no more whip thing from Catwoman."

* * *

***

* * *

Eggless omelets, it should be a Riddler clue. Riddle me this: How do you make an omelet without any eggs. It was Riddler challenge, not _dinner_. So Tim stopped in the kitchen on his way down to the cave, and Alfred came through with some fried chicken. When Tim made it down to the Batcave, Bruce was still there, watching, eh…

"Leopards?"

"Cheetahs. It's a show Selina's fond of, _Big Cat Diary_. It's very interesting, you should watch this. Cheetahs are lightweight, streamlined. That hyena is substantially bigger, with the most powerful jaws of any predator in the region. It can crunch through a buffalo's thighbone like a match stick, could make a meal of the cat. She's overmatched, both animals know it—but look, hyena's tail goes down, that's a sign of submission, and… it's leaving. This is the second time she's chased one off. She's even hunted in the middle of a pride of lions that would view her as a snack. Insanely rash, but she keeps getting away with it. Another one of these had a lioness scaring off two adult males."

"Okay, we're not talking about Wild Kingdom then, it's lesson time. You're studying Catwoman's fighting style based on this show Selina watches. Sketching out a few protocols?"

Bruce looked up in shock.

"Of course not. My… 'girlfriend' I guess we should call her… likes this show. It's only natural to watch. Get an idea of what she likes, presents and such down the line."

"She likes _cats_, Bruce. The clue is in her name."

"I'm just watching out of curiosity, Tim. I'm not authoring any Catwoman protocols. I noticed some interesting parallels, that's all. And as someone who must occasionally fight an opponent substantially larger and stronger, I'll make those observations wherever I find them. I suggest you do the same."

"I am," Tim said sternly—and again, Bruce stared in shock. "Bruce, do me a favor and don't mess this thing up with Selina. I talked to Barbara like you said, and I'm still not completely onboard with the idea, but if I get onboard, it'd be nice to know this isn't going to be another crash-and-burn if it crashes and burns. Everybody in Young Justice looks at me funny now, because they're sure I must have a harddrive full of schemes to take them out. Dick's in the same situation with the Titans. So it'd be real nice if you didn't go and stick it to us again with this Catwoman thing, that's all I'm saying."

"Well first, 'this Catwoman thing' is my private life, Timothy, and it's not really any of your business. To the extent that it does affect you and the others, I informed you. As for the protocols, if your teammates in Young Justice can't grasp the need for a fire extinguisher in a kitchen or a lock on a gun cabinet, you would do well to reevaluate your association with them. That said, if things would 'crash and burn' with Selina, I don't think you need to worry about her reacting with shock and horror at the revelation that Batman's made a study of her weaknesses. In a strange way, the rogues seem to have a clearer perspective on the core realities of the lives we've chosen than certain members of the Justice League."

"Oh man," Tim said, shaking his head sadly. "Poor Selina."

* * *

Wednesday morning, Selina and Binky set off for the YSL sample sale, undeterred by a torrential downpour. They returned triumphant, weighed down with shopping bags, joking about whether those wimpy Knights would go ahead with their little baseball game tonight. Selina vaguely noticed there was someone else standing beside Nick the doorman, but between the rain and the umbrellas and the shopping bags—not to mention a taxi that was taking no prisoners and a FedEx van that didn't care who he killed—she didn't exactly see who it was. She just perceived a general bustle of helpfulness getting her and Binky and the bags and the umbrellas into the dry calm of the lobby. Only then did she see that Nick had taken Binky's bags while the newcomer—Tim Drake, the kid from the manor—was carrying hers.

"Um, thanks," she said, giving the umbrella a good shakeout before getting into the elevator.

He said little more than "Hi" until Binky left the elevator, but as soon as the doors closed behind her, he unburdened himself: the Gotham Knights were not "wimpy". The pitcher's mound and the base paths are _dirt_, they turn to _mud_. Plus, the ball would be heavier and harder to catch if it was wet, harder to throw with any degree of accuracy, a wet bat would be a lot harder to grip, and as for sliding into home…

"Point taken," Selina conceded. "I will simply say that the _women_ of Gotham would never let anything as inconsequential as a little water falling from the sky come between them and a $300 Yves St. Laurent. From what I saw today, they wouldn't let Killer Croc come between them and a $300 YSL."

Tim smiled, although he wasn't completely comfortable with the casual name-dropping of a name villain. By the time they reached Selina's door, however, he realized it was the kind of thing anyone might say. They went inside, he set down her bags, and while she put away her umbrella, Tim remarked on the surprising lack of cat stuff in her apartment.

"At least you guys are consistent," Selina said under her breath.

"So, uh, I kinda made a mess of things meeting you the other night," Tim said frankly. "I thought I'd give it another try, if that's okay."

"If you like" Selina said pleasantly. "It's not like we haven't met before a few dozen times, though."

"Yeah," Tim said, shifting his weight. "That's the thing, I'm really not too comfortable with all this."

"Join the club," Selina said, handing him a diet soda, and clinking her can against his as if in an unspoken toast.

"Seriously?" Tim sputtered, looking at the soda can in wonder.

"It's quite the little boys' club you fellas have," Selina nodded vigorously. "And that first step into the clubhouse is a doozy. I hadn't caught my breath after 'Welcome to the Batcave'—and by the way, how exactly a costume I wore for two weeks six years ago winds up in his _trophy room_, at some point that needs to be explained to me—and also by the way, I saw my file in your little 'bat-computer' and there seems to be a certain difference of opinion about my weight and measurements, which we will also discuss at another time—I haven't caught my breath after _that_ overload, he wants me to meet him at the office next day and have lunch at the penthouse—Do you know what he has hanging next to his Picasso up there? _Another_ Picasso. Then comes the country club where he springs a new personality on me. This, I later learn, is 'the fop', and because I'm apparently not filling my metaphorical loot sack with these insights for some Hugo Strange Psychodrama Spectacular, I get _tea_. Tim, seriously, you being 'not too comfortable with all this' is the only halfway normal thing that's happened all week."

"Wow," Tim said, swallowing.

Selina glared.

"Yeah, okay, that was kind of a meltdown. You forget about mine, I'll forget yours the other night."

"Mine was understandable," Tim said bravely. "I mean that was… that was a really nice dress."

"You called my show Cat-Tits, Timothy."

"It was a _really_ nice dress," he repeated.

Selina managed a smile.

"Is it my imagination, or are you maybe a little more comfortable with all this than you were ten minutes ago."

"Nah," Tim lied, with a wide grin. Then he turned serious. "Look, truth is, I had a little talk with Oracle last night. She says you've known who she is for a long time and you were pretty cool about it."

"Y-yeah, I might not be cool much longer about that, because it seems like she keeps telling the story to nosy crimefighters, and then your next stop is here. That's a _big_ no-no for the people I work for."

"Yeah, about that, you could really do me a solid."

"Do you a solid?"

"You said the Harley Quinn idea really worked for you, right? Got big laughs? Well, this would be a great way to pay me back."

"I'm surprised you even heard that, it didn't seem like your brain was 'receiving' at that point."

"Well I did, it was, and this would be a great way to thank me."

"By doing you a solid," she said flatly.

"Right!"

"Related to an Oracle job I did a hundred years ago, before the telegraph and penicillin."

"Yeah, see I get a lot of 'detective homework', I guess you'd call it. Cold case stuff, filling in all the unanswered questions that the initial investigation didn't… Uh… No, that's a lie. The thing is, Selina, now that you're involved with Bruce, it's like you all of a sudden have access to all this inside information, about all of us. Stuff you really shouldn't know—boy that sounds harsh. I mean, stuff that Catwoman would have no way of finding out. Stuff you only know because one of us is telling Selina. I guess I kinda want you to give something back. Tell me—tell _Tim Drake_—something that Robin shouldn't know."

"That's fair—wait a minute! Wait a… Did that manipulative son of a bitch send you here to charm the story out of me with that 'women love me, I'm cuddly and unthreatening' act?"

"It is NOT an act," Tim fumed, "I am cud—wait a minute, _cuddly? _I'm not cuddly! I was trained by Batman, lady! And then Shiva! And then Batman again to correct some of the Shiva stuff he didn't like."

"Oh yeah, I've heard the Shiva stories, kid. Lady Death Incarnate says you are cute as button."

"This is a test," Tim announced in the same way you assure yourself an in-progress nightmare is just a dream. "It's a test, and if I pass, I get the Parallel Mayhem story."

"Yes," Selina said finally, unable to suppress a laugh. "You do get the story, not because you're particularly charming, but because if I don't put a stop to this, she's going to tell Azrael next, and that lunkhead knocking on my door, I don't need. So, briefly, I had a hunch this Parallel Mayhem was running something just a little bigger than a hacker trap. I have an old friend who has an old friend in MI-6…"

"Whoa, like James Bond MI-6?"

"With less glamour and more paperwork, yes. My friend hooked me up with one of their Gotham agents who gave me the rundown on the intelligence community soap opera: what the CIA kept from the FBI, what the FBI kept from the DOJ. Treasury and Army Intelligence seem to be 'special friends' but in non-creepy brotherly way: patriotism, cooperation for its own sake, politics stops at the water, that kind of thing—unlike the NSA and National Reconnaissance Office, which apparently share the inter-agency synergy that dare not speak its name. Oh, and absolutely nobody but the DEA is down market enough to talk to the GCPD."

"This is the coolest CaseRep I ever heard," Tim laughed.

"The coolest what?!"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Some goddamn Bat-crimefighter-thing, is that what you just said?"

"No ma'am," Tim shook his head.

"You can leave now."

"Oh come on! You can't cut me off there, it was just getting good!"

"It's really not all that interesting," Selina sighed. "The Department of Justice, Navy Intelligence, and GCPD had the biggest reasons to, shall we say, 'count the silver' after the FBI came to dinner. I picked Navy Intelligence, went in after hours, picked the office of a Lieutenant Commander Glint. I just liked the sound of it. Went into his office and generated a memo hinting that the FBI was developing this worm to infiltrate everything that plugs into a socket, and do we really think they're just trying to catch a hacker or are they planning to spy on us? Went back to the FBI—by now I was getting really bored with their sorry excuse for building security. Found an office on a floor I hadn't been to before, Special Agent Whoremembers. Had him send a memo how the Navy is snooping around Sibyl Snare and are we sure everything is as it should be. Naturally once they all started poking around, Cummings work comes under all kinds of scrutiny and he's busted."

"And this Glint and Agent Whozzit that supposedly got the ball rolling, they get the credit so they're not going to deny anything."

"Pfft, who cares? I'm thinking those places are so clogged with bureaucracy, I doubt anyone looked to see where the paper trail started."

"That is still seriously cool," Tim said admiringly.

"It is?"

"Totally wicked."

"I always considered it a snooze. No chases, no gunfire, no yummy aftermath with a honked off cape. Just picking locks, sending memos, and geeks poking into computer code while I was home eating Haagen Daaz."

"Best CaseRep ever."

* * *

***

* * *

Selina laughed, delighted.

"Look, Tim, I enjoy tweaking his nose as much as the next person. I always have, it's practically my trademark. But if you reference Robin in this paper of yours, his head will explode. Just use the Huntress story, it makes the same point."

"It does? What point is that?" Tim gaped.

"When it's really important, when the city or the world is at risk, we can put our law and order differences aside and work together. When that happens, those of us on the villain side of the equation behave like civilized adults with a job to do, while your lot carry on like petulant teenagers, griping in the back seat because you're being dragged to a family reunion when you wanted to stay home and play video games with your friends."

"_That's_ the point?! What kind of point is that?"

"Accurate! So pin the tail on Huntress, let her come off like the bad-tempered, short-sighted ingrate. Robin is still cuddly and non-threatening, and maybe we can get through the semester without you making Bruce's head explode."

"I am not cuddly," Tim said through clenched teeth. Then he stopped, tilted his head back as if staring at something behind Selina, and then knit his brow. "Wow, full circle."

"What is?" Selina asked.

"Remember that day? 'Cuddly and non-threatening', you remember what I asked you that day?"

Selina thought for a minute, remembering.

"Oracle's FBI hacker," she said finally.

"No, not that part. I wanted you to tell me about it so I'd know you had your guard down with us, the same way Bruce did with you. I asked for you to tell Tim Drake something Robin would never find out as Robin. So y'know, now you're giving Tim cover to know stuff only Robin should know—full circle."

"It sure is," Selina chuckled.

"See, my big thought that day was how—I found him watching that show you like with the big cats, and it was right after the Protocols, and all I could think was how you guys were going to split up in a month after all these big confidences are exchanged, and then in that crazed animosity of a breakup... What the hell did I know, anyway. I was still on _Quelle sorte de __fromage_ aimez-vous avec jambon, but I knew everything there was to know about the crazy things people do after a split."

"We all miss her, Tim."

"Full circle all right. Couple years later, you and Bruce are still together and I tell Steph—"

"Stop. Right. There."

"Cuddly and non-threatening, yeah, that's me. _Bruce_ is cuddly and non-threatening. I'm the freakin' Terminator. You know what the last thing I said to her was?"

"My whip is right in the closet, young man. You keep this up—"

"You can't say it's not true, Selina."

"That you're the Terminator? Yes, I can say that's not true. I can also say this: Tim you've always been the most normal one around here, and in your case, 'normal' isn't overrated. You're _fine_. As for Stephanie, don't tell me the last you said to her, tell me your _best_ memory of her."

"The best ones are kinda private," Tim said with a blush. "But she really liked the idea of you and Bruce. Total romantic there. The night I told her, we were hanging around outside 30 Rock. Sting was appearing on SNL, so officially we were 'crowd control', but really, Steph was just hoping to see him…"

* * *

...to be continued...


	4. No Get

**Do No Harm  
**Chapter 4: No Get

* * *

Selina tore back the covers like she had a grudge against them, stumbled into the bathroom, and splashed her face with water. Then she glared at the face in the mirror.

"You again," she breathed. "Welcome back, Mirror Bitch. It's been a while."

Superficially, her reflection looked just as sleepy and shaken from her nightmare as Selina felt, but there was always that vague glimmer in the eye after a particularly vivid dream, as if part of her knew something the rest of her didn't.

"Woof," Selina declared, a parting shot as her shoulders slumped slightly and she trudged back to bed.

"Mirror Bitch?" Bruce asked with a grin.

"Sorry if I woke you," Selina grumbled.

"I don't mind," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her once she was back under the covers. "I can sleep in tomorrow, now that the board meeting is out of the way. I can get back on a normal schedule."

"A normal Batman schedule, you mean. Calling your schedule 'normal' without the Bat-qualifier abuses the language."

"That's the 'Mirror Bitch' mood, alright. Haven't heard from her in a while."

"Yeah, well…" Selina murmured, settling into the embrace and closing her eyes again. "It was a dream I haven't had in a long time."

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

A purrfect night for a prowl. The air was chill, the moonlight glistened off the water, and the purrfect prize had come to Gotham, had come right to her…

The European art world was still buzzing over the heist, and no one more than Selina's fence, Igor. Epoque Fine Jewels, one of the Europe's largest dealers in antique jewelry, had been burgled right in their stall at the Belgian Art Fair. Over two-hundred pieces taken, _ signed_ pieces by Cartier, by Lalique, by Van Cleef & Arpels. The papers estimated the value at 2 million Euros, but Igor said it was closer to 2.8. If he was fencing, maybe as much as 3.

He was livid. It was the second time Epoch Jewels were taken. The last burglary was at the Antwerp Diamond Museum. Several pieces Epoch loaned to a temporary exhibit of Art Deco gems netted Igor's biggest competitor a million U.S. _A million U.S.!_ Not to mention a stable of new thieves, the patronage of a dozen new collectors, and contacts within Igor's own network of international jetsetters that had previously been his own private monopoly. In the years that followed, she'd been using it all to muscle him out of the first tier. Now it was happening again: two hundred vintage pieces, _masterpieces_ signed by Lalique, by Vever, by Boucheron and Giuliano; art nouveau gold, pearls, enamels and ivory. Igor threw himself on Selina's mercy. He didn't know who had done the second heist, but he knew they were not bringing the proceeds to him. They brought them to that banshee of hell, Sabine Evrard, and with a war chest like that, there was no telling what she'd try next!

What she tried next was absolutely appalling: She rented a megayacht called _The Merry Old Gentleman_, which she was taking from luxury port to luxury port as a floating showroom for the stolen art, antiques and jewels she peddled. If a client wished, they could even make the buy in international waters—although that struck Selina as silly. If you're that squeamish about _buying_ a stolen Vermeer, a transaction that takes all of fifteen minutes, how do you go about owning it for the next thirty years?

In any case, Igor's nemesis, Sabine Evrard, had brought her vulgar floating showroom to Gotham, where it was sitting in Slip 8 of the Gotham Yacht Club. Catwoman had already circumvented the yacht club security, such as it was, which left only the yacht itself. Getting onboard required a few acrobatics, evading the cameras until she could get on top of one without being seen by the others, and then setting up a tape loop. The resulting blindspot on the first camera made getting to the second easier, and the third and fourth were a breeze. All that remained were a few ordinary locks to pick (hardly worth mentioning), a motion detector in the salon, and cracking the actual safe...

Except it seemed the last two would be unnecessary since the motion detector was already switched off and the door to the salon unlocked. Catwoman had opened the door warily and saw someone was in there—presumably Sabine Evrard judging by the muumuu, the turban, and the fact that she had the safe open! A miniature mountain of diamonds and emeralds glistened inside, and then:

"Oh, it's you! Hi, Selina!"

The muumuu'd figure had turned, and it was…

Uh…

Nightwing in drag?

"Stand down, everyone, it's just Selina!"

The lights flicked on and Robin came running out.

"Oh hi, Selina. Did 'Wing tell you how much I liked your show?"

Selina screamed.

She bolted up in bed—chasing the cats away in a frenzied panic—

Her heart was pounding—pounding—pounding—

"Not again," she murmured, tipping her head back and letting the weight pull her back onto the pillow. "This nightmare thing is contagious."

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

Once upon a time, when their relationship was new and the significance of dating the World's Greatest Thief was only just sinking in, Bruce Wayne hired Catwoman to document all the security weaknesses she could find at Wayne Enterprises. The job took a nasty turn when she discovered it was all in response to corporate espionage initiated by Talia Head at LexCorp—and that Talia knew the head of Wayne Enterprises was Batman.

Selina couldn't believe that Bruce didn't see the significance of that information. Against the rest of the world, Wayne Enterprises security was simply Wayne Enterprises security. Sure it included Bruce as the head of the company, but nothing beyond that. Bruce Wayne was a figurehead, Lucius Fox was the brains of the operation, etc… But to someone who knew _Bruce Wayne was Batman_, how could he not see that that little factoid changed everything? She called Harvey and arranged a diversion that would keep all the Bat Team occupied at various locations around the city. Knowing they were occupied, she snuck into the Batcave and broke into Bruce's desktop, simply to document that weakness along with the others. It was _necessary_, it's what he had _asked_ her to do, it's the job he had _hired_ her to do… but she felt terrible doing it.

Those days were long over. She lived at the manor now, she had lived _in the cave_ for the last weeks Bruce was laid up with that back injury, and two nights a week, she fought crime right alongside Batman. She could use the Batcomputer any time she wanted without attracting attention, no matter who was in the cave. Yet there she was, waiting for Batman to leave, feeling just as guilty and nauseous as she had that first time. It was his cave, it was a part of _him_, an extension of all Batman meant. Waiting for him to leave so she could use the computer without his seeing, it seemed so… wrong.

But it wasn't wrong. There was no point upsetting him. It was Eddie, it was personal, it was their friendship, _and_ it was crimefighting. If there was a recipe to spike Bruce's blood pressure, that was it. Nothing good could come from getting him involved, particularly before she knew there was anything to get him involved _with_.

Their date night project included some feline intelligence gathering on the Z. Their clubhouse on West 48th wasn't the most challenging of break-ins, but the Tower of London couldn't compete with breaking and entering for Batman. It was still the biggest thrill she knew. Once inside, she'd unearthed all kinds of receipts and packing slips, mostly for meaningless purchases: hammers and nails and potato chips consumed as the Z set up lairs and fronts for the name rogues. The Z were notorious for passing on every expense—every related expense and any number of unrelated expenses—onto their clients. There was just that one receipt, glimpsed by chance: _ Petite Abeille. _Meaningless at the time, a half-remembered name. _Petite Abeille_, an egg sandwich and coffee, $6.75. It meant nothing… until Oracle's report of upcoming Arkham releases.

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

Both cats hopped back onto the bed, and Selina decided against getting up. It would just disturb them again. What was the point in getting up, anyway? It was just a dream. Bound to happen after all that was happening with Bruce. Cat pins now! Covered in diamonds, emerald eyes, vintage Cartier, _iconic_ Cartier. The most perfect vintage examples of the signature Cartier panthers, two of them—made for the Duchess of Windsor, no less! Bruce giving her the second one _exactly the way Dick had predicted_, it was perfectly natural that it might spark a dream or two. Batman was Bruce Wayne. He had the money to buy something like those cat pins as nothing more than _bait_ for Catwoman, and now he'd given them to her as a gift—just like Nightwing-no-Dick predicted! Robin came to her door and helped carry her bags. If she _wasn't_ having nightmares, that would be the shocker.

She fluffed her pillow and was ready to go back to sleep, when the phone rang.

_:: What sounds like the Riddler's favorite breakfast? ::_

"Eddie, it's too early," Selina moaned.

_:: That's why this is an easy one. Listen: My first _sounds_ like you may have _guessed_… ::_

"Look, call me back in a couple hours, I'll be more fun."

_::Lina, riddle me this: What's the point in calling mid-afternoon if I'm trying to invite you to _breakfast_?::_

Selina growled into the phone.

_:: 'Sounds like' my favorite breakfast food: _ waffle_. Rhymes with 'baffle', get it? And what sounds like 'guessed'? Best! Best waffle in Gotham, 'Lina. A new place, Petite Abeille. Belgian. And what Kitty goes on and on about the fabulous waffles every time she gets back from seeing her fence in Brussels?::_

"Oh, I see," Selina managed, turning on the light. "Well, it has been forever since I've had a really good waffle."

_::They have both kinds, Lina. Burglar's Foe is Swell Fees.::_

Great. Anagrams. It was far too early for that nonsense… but he said it in that sing-song tone like it was something tempting, so…

"Brussels or Liege waffles, got it. I'm in. Where is this place?"

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

"No get."

Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow. Cassie's language skills were still limited, but they had moved beyond that.

"What is it you don't understand?" he asked, offering an example of more sophisticated phrasing without blatantly correcting her.

"Body telegraph move. Is always so. Even Batman shift weight back to push forward on punch, and little bit to right if going to snap back for knockout. Always so. Must be so. But now…" she trailed off into a petulant pout.

"Now the bodies lie?" Bruce said, supplying the words she had used when she first came to talk to him in the cave.

She nodded, and Bruce reset Strategic Self-Mutating Defense Regimen 5 to the warm up sequence for his profile. Then:

"VOX command: activate camera Cave-6, start record."

Bruce progressed through the warm up battle, not quite in slow motion, but as slowly as he could without the process changing his movements and corrupting the data.

"Now, let's watch the tape together," he suggested.

They had done this before, soon after Cassie learned to speak. Back then, Bruce thought her uncanny ability to read body language instantly, amidst the chaos of a fight, might help him modify his own tells against such an opponent. It turned out, his tells were no different from Cassie's own: the ones it was necessary to keep in order to perform optimally in a fight. He abandoned the idea of changing to better defend against this one little girl's ability that, as far as he knew, no other adversaries shared, at the expense of fighting less effectively against all other opponents.

But today's task was different. Today wasn't for his benefit. Cassie said her abilities were failing. Well, not exactly. She said the bodies of her opponents had begun to lie. That wasn't possible, so it must be her own ability to read them...

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

"No get."

"Spoiler told you I'm with Selina now."

Cassie made a face.

"Is hard name… See… See… See-na is _Cat_. Spoiler say Sensei with Cat now. Yes. No get."

"Right… Cassie, I know you don't have a lot of words to work with yet, but you have plenty of advanced thoughts behind them. You understand men and women, what happens. Coupling."

"Yes. Father teach. Father teach all that is need for kill. Teach about sex. Whores who sell. Get good information from any sell sex, Father teach."

Batman scowled.

"Pore-nog-gree too. People that make pore-nog-gree… Porn-og…"

"Pornography."

"Yes. Them. Know secret places. Good for find safe house. Good for find drugs. Sometimes good for find blackmail. But not so good for that as whores. All this Father teach."

Batman scowled.

"Father teach also: in when doing sex, good time for kill. Target vul-ture-ab-le when pants down."

* * *

Selina scowled.

"I don't believe I let you talk me into this," she grumbled. "This is worse than when you had me wearing green."

"Oh c'mon, 'Lina. So we're on the East End, what's the big deal? It's trendy now. There's no need for the blonde wig, wide brim hat and dark glasses bit."

"Haven't you seen the crap the Post's been writing since my show, Eddie? If you think I will risk being seen here and validating their insulting, preposterous—"

"But it's not like it's a _slum_ anymore. It's shabby-chic. There are like six health food stores on this block alone. They've got those herbs that makes you smarter, that ginko biloba, gotu kola, turmeric, _cat's claw_. Don't tell you object to that one."

"Eddie, after all I went through to set the record straight, I wouldn't care if Foster and Forsythe set up a 'Pick our unpicklable lock and win a Golden Bast' stand on the corner. You will see me organize a dog show for the Justice League in the Tenth Circle of Hell before I compromise on this one."

"Okay, okay. I didn't think it'd be such a big deal. I figured good waffles, Belgian hot chocolate…"

"Just wait 'til it happens to you, Edward my pet… That said, Belgian hot chocolate… Yum."

"You know if Pammy were here, she'd remind you that you're never supposed to eat or drink anything when you go into Hades. That's how they tripped up that Persephone chick."

"What herbs did you say you're taking again?"

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

"There, left arm open out toward camera. Batman know time almost up. Three more punch, maybe four, then Zogger stop. Look! Still breathe hard, but no bother with knockout punch. Know Zogger end on its own now."

Bruce sighed.

"Cassie, it seems like you're able to read my movements as accurately as always."

She watched the screen, which had frozen on the final frame.

"Guess not all bodies lie. Just some. Was not always so."

"You used to be able to read body language consistently all the time, but now your abilities are unreliable? How long has this been going on?" Bruce asked, shutting off the camera.

"Since teach Tim. Try teach Tim. Tim no learn. Tim have slow head."

"A slow head?"

"Slow head or maybe slow fist. Must read bodies very fast," she said, pointing to the darkened screen. "Before hit. Else is no good. Must read fast, then react fast, before hit. If no can block hit, no point in see it come."

"You're talking about an acquired reflex, Cassie. That doesn't just happen without a lot of practice. Just like your kata, it takes thousands of repetitions before the moves become instinctive, a learned second nature."

"No time practice when pitbull snarling in face. Learn or bleed."

"That's how your father taught you?" Bruce said, flashing back to horrible revelations like this when Cassie first came to his attention. "You know that's not how it works here. That's why we have the Strategic Self-Mutating Defense Regimen, to master these skills in comparative safety."

"Zogger no have body. No can read."

"I see. I'll see what I can come up with."

* * *

Selina was meditating in the sun room when Bruce found her. Not surprisingly, Nutmeg was stretched out beside her. The cat might not be "meditating" exactly, but it had found the one spot with maximum direct sunlight. It was on its back, its belly stretched out, paws extended, with its eyes closed in an expression of pure feline bliss.

"I hate to interrupt," Bruce said mildly.

Nutmeg's eyes opened in a clearly expressed "Then don't." Selina's eyes did not open, but her lips curled into a coy smile before her response:

"But?"

"But I want you to talk to Cassie before she leaves. I think a woman's touch is called for."

"I thought she came over with a Bat problem," Selina said.

"That's what she said, but I think there's more to it. She's reverting to her early vocabulary and speech patterns when she talks about it. That _usually_ means a subject connected to her early life. Reading body language is something Cain taught her, so it made sense, at first…"

"But?"

"I don't know, something is off. Tim's name came up several times."

"I am not getting in the middle of that," Selina insisted. "It's like when Two-Face started up with Ivy: eyes down, cross the street, and thank the stars it doesn't concern you."

"This is different. Selina let me explain something about Cassie's upbringing…"

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

"Cain taught her everything an assassin needs to know, which included sex as a biological function during which a target is vulnerable. The world of prostitution, both gay and straight, seems to have been covered thoroughly. Human trafficking, including the sale of children, and the making and distribution of pornography. In terms of the seedy underbelly, she apparently knew more by age ten than I know now. But in terms of the… the 'facts of life' talk, sex as an act of love and tenderness that she herself might want to experience some day, that was evidently unnecessary information."

"Charming," Barbara winced. "Unnecessary—like teaching her to talk was unnecessary. The more we find out about that girl's history, the more I think that, given a contest between Joker and David Cain, Cain is the greater evil."

"Agreed, but at the moment, I'm worried about her side of the equation more than Cain getting what he deserves. She's unaware of any upside to male/female relations. She thinks of it only as a weakness without any counterbalancing benefit, like… like shooting heroin. Naturally, with those preconceptions, she assumed it's not a behavior Batman would ever engage in."

"No comment," Barbara smirked.

"She's very worried. Barbara, she came to me because she thinks I have a death wish, because taking a lover—any lover—is opening myself up for assassination. She needs the sex talk. Despite knowing the biological and criminal definitions, she doesn't actually know what sex _ is_, and at her age, it's time for her to find out."

"Well, Dick knows how it works, so you managed to convey the pertinent information at some point. I can't imagine why you're coming to me."

"Come on, Barbara. Let's not pretend men and women aren't different. For a girl, this is better coming from a woman."

Barbara pursed her lips. Every fiber in her being screamed to contradict that blasphemy—but she couldn't get past the memory of her father, unable to make eye contact for a week and finally fobbing the job off on her Aunt Eunice.

Still, she didn't like Bruce getting off quite so easily.

"You're probably right," she said finally. "If what you say is true, if she looks on sex as the equivalent of 'shooting up', then she's not going to believe your version of things if you're just another junkie. She'll probably think you're kidding yourself, trying to justify taking up with Catwoman."

Batman scowled.

"Ooo, hear the latest?" Barbara said, changing the subject with forced cheer. "That double bust at the Iceberg last night? Scarecrow was taking bets before 'Wing and Robin intervened. Nightwing put a few dollars on Harley Quinn, just as an opening to get them talking, get some information on how the fight started…"

Batman scowled.

"Today it's the talk of the underworld. Everybody's talking about how Nightwing strolled into the Iceberg, saw a brawl in progress, and placed a bet like one of the guys."

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

Selina scowled.

Cassie was still at the Batcomputer, happily going over the footage of Batman working out, pointing out the different subtleties that showed how he would move next.

"That's nice, Cass. But I'd rather talk about where the body language _isn't_ working rather than seeing where it does."

Cassie shifted uneasily in her chair.

"Bruce send you because he know I lie?"

"He… sensed there was more than what you were saying, and he thought it might be easier to talk to me."

"Thought so. You no fight as good as Bat. Not make sense he send you to talk about fighting. Is true what say to Bruce. Say bodies lie. Did not used to be so. Always can tell by shifting weight how body will move. Also by where eyes point and sometimes by tilt of head. All these things tell how will body move. Now, sometimes can tell. Sometimes not. But did not tell Bruce when bodies lie, is not when fighting. Is when do other things. Not tell that part but he know. So he send you."

"Not bad, little detective," Selina smiled. "So, the bodies that are lying, the one's whose body language you can't read anymore… if they're not fighting, what are they doing?"

"Is only one. Is Tim. Body say Tim want to talk, then no talk. Body say Tim want to kiss, then no kiss."

"You were seeing another boy, Cassie. Men are very sensitive about that kind of thing."

"Still, body no should lie. If say going to lean forward, should lean forward. Is always so."

"Okay, I can see a few possibilities here. First, this might be one of those areas where what works in a fight doesn't work the same way in another context."

"Always has before. Can tell who carry gun from way they walk. Can tell who eat big dinner from way they walk. Can even tell when driver get ready make turn before use turn signal. Can tell when couple leave restaurant if had fight inside and who mad at who, all from walk, just like with gun…"

"Yes, but this is different. This is a boy deciding if the moment is right to kiss you."

"Stupid Tim."

"Cassie, you were right earlier. I don't fight as well as Batman. But I always got away, and I beat him more than once. Can you guess why?"

She nodded.

"No can predict outcome of fight from training or skill. Too much other factors."

"Okay, close enough. There is one particular 'factor' when it's me and Batman, one particular variable, and it plays hell with all his other abilities. Maybe it's the same with your ability to read body language when you're alone with Tim."

"Stupid Tim."

"Or… 'Stupid Cassie?' Maybe? That's the other possibility, Kiddo, but I wouldn't call it 'stupid' exactly. Cass, if you're not reading Tim's body language correctly, it might be because you're seeing what you want to see."

Cassie scowled.

"Okay, we'll put a pin in that one for now," Selina smirked. "Either he's sending mixed messages—which means he needs some _ encouragement_—or else he's not on the same page you are—which means you should also offer a little encouragement. Let him know he's invited, just in case the thought hasn't occurred to him."

"No get."

Selina tilted her head back, interlacing her fingers slightly… the soft smile on her face softening even more as she reached a decision.

"They all fall for that, don't they? Bruce especially."

"No get."

"You _get_ just fine, young lady. You just don't like what you're hearing."

Cassie scowled.

"I tell you what," Selina said in her best, old-time tempting-the-Bat voice. "You help me out with my problem, maybe I can help you out with yours."

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

"'Lina, why didn't I start the California earthquake? Because it's _not my fault!_"

"It's totally your fault, Eddie. You're the one who made me tell Harvey about that stupid video tape. You're the one who insisted we had to keep it 'in the family', settle it among ourselves. Now he and Pammy are busted—with Joker and Harley—on a misdemeanor! Three of the biggest rogues in Gotham hauled in for a goddamn barroom brawl!"

"Why didn't I start the California earthquake, Lina! It's not like I could have foreseen him going after Oswald. I didn't even know Penguin was involved. And who knew could have guessed Ivy would just happen to be at the Iceberg that night with Harley in tow and another Harley/Joker toss up in progress."

"Yeah, I'm shocked—shocked I say—to hear that there is gambling going on in this establishment."

"Ha. Ha."

"C'mon, Eddie, think about it. Misdemeanor assault. That's not Arkham, that's the holding cell in some piss ant precinct on 14th Street until everybody's sobered up to say they're not pressing charges. Until then, they're not segregated, they're in there together, pissing each other off. And if Two-Face decides I 'started the California earthquake' by telling him about that video—"

"Then he'll yell a little! If it's your fault, that's all he'll do to you, 'Lina. Me, there'd be a coin flip at the very least—and it'd be one of those trick ones, where if it comes up on the good side, he says '2 out of 3.' I've got one black eye already, and you know he'd just keep flipping until he got the result he wanted to give me a second."

"Woof."

"C'mon, you know I'm right, 'Lina."

"Fine. If she shows up pissed, I'll cover for you. But there's a price. You did not get that black eye from 'a run-in with the Junior Bat'. What really happened?"

"I really don't want to talk about it."

"Well I really want to tell Two-Face who told me about the video, so…"

"He veto stump."

"Translation?"

"I put the moves on Harley. She socked me."

"A girl did that to you, Mr. Riddler?"

"Can we drop it now, Lina?"

"A girl in tassels…"

"This is so embarrassing."

"…with the little bells on the tip?"

"Yes. What once-great rogue of Gotham got a black eye from a ditzy clown girl? _C'est moi._ I am a victim of Jester Assault, Buffoon Abuse, Harlequin Antics. I was the recipient of a Civics Roguish Rots—a vicious right cross—from a white-faced pantalooned she-clown—A Cascaded Nineteenth Flop How Low—who is not worldly enough to know a simple slap, or even, dare I say it—A Pilates Fouler—a polite refusal would get the job done."

"Eddie, seriously, how many of those herbs have you been taking?"

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

"There we go," Catwoman purred, zooming the satellite image to frame four city blocks.

"East End," Cassie said.

"Yep. According to Barbara, Eddie—the Riddler, that is—just started his final week of the 'Fast Track Rehabilitation Program', which means, as long as he doesn't start any trouble, calling Catman a 'pussy' or telling Croc that Blake took his chicken wings, he'll be released in a few days. With me so far?"

Cassie nodded.

"No start trouble, get out. Go here?"

"Right. Eddie wants to avoid another run in with 'Catwoman the crimefighter' and to be perfectly honest, so would I. But I can't ignore the way he's decided to go about it. He has the Z setting up a new lair for him—right here." She tapped a clawtip on the touchpad, and green circle appeared on the screen, circling a particular building.

"Is smart. Knows Catwoman no will go in East End. For anything but especially not for crime-fight."

"Exactly. It's dancing on a very delicate and very complicated piece of our history. And this lair… Either it's a very practical solution to an awkward situation, or it's underhanded and mean. If it's the former, I don't want to ruin it. If it's the latter, I want to smack him hard. Understand."

Cassie nodded vigorously.

"Double blind python snare. If opponent make python strike, must block high. But if do python redtail, high block will move right into blow. No can tell which is coming, so no can tell how defend."

"That's it, Kiddo. So what do you do?"

"Change distance. Step back or push in. Opponent must adjust. Will see from adjust which python he want use."

"I like that," Selina smiled. "We're going to do something similar with Eddie. We're going to close the distance too, in a way that will be taken as a friendly wave if his intentions are friendly, and a big neon middle finger if he's trying to play on our friendship to get the upper hand."

"What we do?"

"This place," again Catwoman tapped a claw on the touchpad, and this time a purple circle appeared on the screen over a different building a short distance from the first. "_Petite Abeille _ has wonderful breakfast food—croissants, brioche, pain au chocolat, baguettes with nutella—you're going to love it. You're going to stop there for breakfast every day once Eddie gets out of Arkham, and you'll be wearing a Cat-Tales sweatshirt and ballcap."

"And sunglasses, hide face."

"Y-yes, but we're also going to play with some disguises, wigs and make-up. And we'll get you some new clothes, too."

"What is point if wear sweatshirt?"

"The new clothes aren't for Eddie's benefit, they're for yours. We're going teach you to vamp a little. It's fun. You'll like it."

"No…" Cassie shook her head. "No will like. Tried once. When Poison Ivy save from Clayface, call me 'Vine', teach to vamp. Not go well."

Selina massaged her forehead. The rest of the Bat-Family got to clean up David Cain's mess with this girl. She got to clean up _Pammy's_.

"Okay," she said finally, taking a deep breath, "Where to begin? First, all of Ivy's ideas about seduction begin with the premise that men are drooling imbeciles whose sole accomplishment in the length and breadth of human history was standing upright so they could scratch themselves. Nothing good can be built on that foundation."

Cassie giggled.

"The other kind of seduction—my kind—begins with, well, _liking_ what you're going after, liking him enough to want him interested. So… tell me about Tim."

"Oh, Tim is great crimefighter," Cassie enthused. "Good at detective part and computer part and even chemistry part. Good at questioning thugs, too. Pretty good at fighting, but could be better. Good to talk to, too. Good spend time with. Good watch movie with too. Knows lots of movies. And is fun to talk about case after patrol. But that is crimefighter again. But not really because talk about case comes after. We go for burger. He know cart on 39th. Sell good cheeseburger all night long. Wrapped in wax paper. With sesame seeds. Mostly talk about patrol but sometimes other things. Not sure about his ideas of music. Too much Black Eyed Peas. Oh, and is very fun to beat at Phoenix Ninja. Makes best face when beat…"

* * *

…to be continued…


	5. Casual Fridays

**Do No Harm  
**Chapter 5: Casual Fridays

* * *

"Piffle," Alfred sniffed, tossing aside an article on "molecular gastronomy" and reconsidering his subscription to _Gourmand Kitchen_. The day he defiled a classic dish like Leg of Lamb a la Pennyworth with the addition of some new fangled "applejack foam", he would turn in his spatula. He was contemplating a letter to the editor, when the door to the hidden elevator opened into his pantry.

"Miss Selina," Alfred smiled. "Is there anything you or the master require downstairs?"

"Officially, I'm here to bring us a couple sandwiches. Unofficially, I just needed a place to chuckle where they wouldn't see me."

"They? There are no guests in the cave that I was told about. If someone has come in through the transporter, I should offer some refreshments—"

"No, no," Selina waved him off. "Nobody in the flesh. Oracle is on the com. See, I was in London with Bruce when he had the big breakthrough finding the chemical Rosetta Stone for Scarecrow's fear toxins, so I already know the story. He's ready for a fresh audience, Oracle is it."

"I see, miss," Alfred said with another knowing smile. He headed out to the kitchen to make the sandwiches, and Selina followed.

"Mind you, up until five minutes ago, it was _Barbara_—no hologram. Bruce is out of costume, didn't exactly have his feet up, but he was leaning back in his chair with the keyboard in his lap. Lazy afternoon in the Batcave, right? I make one little joke to that effect—not even a joke, I just used the phrase 'Casual Friday'—and the pair of them stiffen up like I said 'Officer on deck, point inspection at 0500'. Hologram goes up, and Bruce is changing into costume. He says because he's expecting a vidcall from the Watchtower, but I have my doubts."

"I see, miss. I have noted in the past that Master Bruce, while not averse to informality in principle, is apt to react aversely if it is brought to his attention in the presence of the young ones. With young Master Jason's training in particular, what began as a reasonable relaxing of formality was too often taken as a relaxing of discipline."

"I see. I guess I never thought of Barbara as 'one of the young ones'."

"Perhaps not, miss. You first came to know her as Oracle, after all. For those of us who knew her as Batgirl, however…"

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

"Batgirl? Are you serious? Barbara was the first… Oh my god, that silly cheerleader outfit! Barbara?! With the yellow boots and the gloves and the whole 'Hi, I'm Batarang Barbie' routine?! I don't believe it."

Bruce's lip twitched, and he helped clear the table. One of the perks living in Gotham—one of the perks he seldom enjoyed before Selina—was the plethora of restaurants that delivered. There was no cuisine unrepresented, and no delicacy so specialized that it couldn't be obtained. In a city where half the population didn't bother with a car, and those who did would never consider using it for local errands, every business on every level delivered.

Bruce was only just discovering this 'ordering in' as more than a late-night convenience at the office, if the senior staff were preparing for some new product announcement or a WE presence at a tech show the next day. Even then, he didn't stay and eat with them. He signed the tab, but then he ran off to make an appearance at Nino's with the latest Jenni, Candi, or Fifi. The bimbos always wanted to go out, to be seen, and since that was the only reason Bruce dated them, that was fine with him. He'd drop a thousand dollars on a gourmet pizza at Nino's, covered in four kinds of caviar, lobster, and salmon roe. Nino would serve it personally, thereby establishing exactly where Bruce Wayne was while his best people were working late at Wayne Enterprises. In less than twenty minutes, Batman had established his alibi for the night and that was all Bruce cared about. It was all he had ever cared about, but now…

A date with Selina was a very different thing. It wasn't for appearances, he wasn't establishing an alibi; he wanted to spend time with her. Alone in her apartment, he could say whatever he wanted; he could be himself. It was strangely comfortable, 'ordering in'…

"She was young," Bruce said kindly. "Dick's Robin was no dark, imposing figure of vengeance and you don't seem to have any problem seeing him as Nightwing."

"It's different. I practically watched Dick grow up. Even so, the hardest thing to pull off in Cat-Tales was the whole 'coming on to Nightwing' bit, even to make fun of it. I mean he was so cute, when he went from 'Holy Kitty Litter' to 'eyes straight ahead, for godsake don't look at her tits'…"

Of course, tonight's ordering in wasn't about that comfortable casualness. It was more like a defense mechanism. The last time Bruce took Selina out to dinner, they'd run into Joker and Harley Quinn at d'Annunzio's. The night resolved satisfactorily, with Joker checking himself into Arkham, but only after a costume change and a joint Bat/Cat appearance at the Iceberg that neither party wanted to repeat. Both felt they needed a quiet night in, without any Bat/Cat surprises intruding on Bruce and Selina's time together. After dinner, they'd change and go out, he on Batman's business and she on Catwoman's…

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

Batman, now fully costumed, sat at workstation 1 as molecule after molecule appeared on the giant viewscreen, the 3-d renderings turning slowly as chemical formulas scrolled in a text field beside them. The Oracle hologram hovered on one of the side screens, the occasional sound of her typing clicking softly over the com. Despite the stark appearance of the scene, the conversation was a casual one. Batman's tone in particular evoked Bruce Wayne in the board room more than the Dark Knight Detective in the heart of his crimefighting base:

"When LexCorp went under, I only bought those tech divisions to save jobs in Metropolis. I never expected them to produce any actual benefit for Wayne Enterprises, let alone for Batman. There was too much overlap with existing WayneTech products, and too much Luthor had patterned on us. But he did have a better distribution network in Europe that somehow escaped Talia's meddling. WayneTech doesn't need it, but the WE medical divisions can make good use of it."

"Good news," the Oracle head said wryly. "But how does that lead to chemical warfare with Jonathan Crane?"

"It doesn't; it solves an old mystery. Scarecrow's toxins all work pretty much the same way: a hallucinogen and a set of chemical triggers to get the hallucinations moving in a certain direction."

"Because if my body temp is up, I'm more likely to hallucinate that I'm in a fire than a field of daffodils."

"Correct. All emotions are grounded in brain chemistry, so if you produce the physical symptoms of 'fear'—elevated heart rate, vascular constriction, rapid breathing, etc.—in the presence of a hallucinogen, that's a powerful suggestion for the victim to hallucinate something frightening. Since they're going to be seeing things anyway, their imaginations conjure something to 'explain' why they're frightened. The mystery with Scarecrow was that he'd have several toxins doing the same thing in different ways, with no common chemical alphabet. I'd find a sample of toxin that induced claustrophobia and one that produced arachnophobia. Both boosted adrenaline production, both blocked GABA receptors in the brain, but they _didn't do it the same way_. They didn't share a single chemical marker. That made no sense at all."

"Because if you know how to shut off the calming mechanism in the brain in the first formula, why not do it the same way when you made the second."

"Correct. It's not logical to keep on searching, _if_ it's the same chemist working on both toxins. I was forced to conclude that it wasn't. That whoever made the second toxin was not only a separate person, he or she had no knowledge of the first chemist's work. The more samples I collected, the deeper the puzzle became. Different types of hallucinogens that all worked in different ways, paired with different triggers to mimic a fear response—sometimes! Sometimes there were similarities and overlaps, sometimes there weren't. There was no logic to it."

"That is a puzzle," Oracle said. "So what's the answer?"

"Just like that, 'What's the answer?' More than a decade I've been wrestling with this. It made no sense, absent some common link somewhere in Jonathan Crane's past. I scoured his work history, his education, even the papers his students submitted, and I could never find the source."

"_And???"_

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

"The reign of Crane falls mainly on Lois Lane?" Oswald read, bewildered.

"Put zats down! Zats from other clients."

Kittlemeier snatched the paper napkin off the counter and ushered Oswald Cobblepot into his back room. It was lucky, Catwoman finding him in the hospital after the mugging. All his clients received the time of their next appointment whenever they left the last one. He missed almost a week's worth of fittings and pick-ups while he was in the hospital, and he certainly couldn't allow his clients to start dropping in whenever they felt like it to see if it was a good time. What would happen if Batman showed up when Mr. Freeze was ordering ice grenades, or if Joker breezed in while he was taking Spoiler's measurements?

Fortunately, Catwoman and Batman had both found him in the hospital. He gave each a list of new appointments to distribute to their respective colleagues, and so far, everyone was showing up on time.

"Kwak-kwak-wak," Cobblepot pronounced. Then he chewed his new cigarette holder experimentally, adjusted it between his teeth, and quacked again. "Satisfactory," he said finally. "But it seems lighter than the handle of the umbrella—kwak-kwak. They were supposed to match exactly. I shall expect a reduction."

Oswald really had no need for trick umbrellas anymore. He occasionally fired a shot into the ceiling to keep the Iceberg patrons in line, but his old arsenal was perfectly adequate. He just didn't like the idea of breaking in a new tailor. Kittlemeier understood him, had his measurements, and knew just what he liked. It was worth the occasional splurge on a new umbrella.

The pick-up accomplished, he placed an order for a new suit. His Keystone City pigeon was finally graduating from law school, and Oswald had to make sure the recipient of the Audubon Scholarship understood who he was working for before getting that job in the D.A.'s office. Has to impress the kid, and the best way to impress a Keystone rube was with appropriate plumage…

* * *

"The reign of Crane falls mainly on the… Wow, we knew Jonathan had writer's block, but we had no idea it had gone that far."

"Put that's down!" Kittlemeier roared. "Dat's none of your businesses. Why is everybodys sticking zeir noses into everyzing todays."

"Sorry," Two-Face said wryly. "We have an Iceberg napkin of our own. This is just a rough sketch of course."

Kittlemeier scrutinized the drawing.

"Bulletproof glass. Humidified but ventilated. Has to let air in. We need it to—"

"I don'ts needs to know what is for," Kittlemeier said sharply. "Just tell me how bigs. It doesn't say heres."

"One by one by two should do it. It's for an orchid."

"Didn't I just says I don't needs to know dats?"

"We thought it would be easier," Two-Face said under his breath.

The Lady Slipper, the perfect orchid, perfectly symmetrical petals. What a prize! If he wasn't swiping it for Ivy, he'd take it for himself. Still, the coin had spoken: good side up. She'd been so depressed since Harley went back to Joker. He should do something to cheer her up, especially before Christmas. If he didn't turn this around before the 'mass ritual slaughter of the trees', it would be bad for Gotham (which Harvey cared about for some ridiculous reason) and worse for him personally (which both of them cared about, much as they hated to agree on anything beyond the temperature of their bath water).

So all he would get out of stealing the orchid was the satisfaction of robbing the Madison Auction House a second time, and taking his new henchmen out for a trial run. That reminded him…

"Have Twin and Twain picked up their new suits yet?"

* * *

"The brain of Crane's gone completely down the drain," Jervis Tetch declared, sniggering at the napkin on Kittlemeier's counter.

"I hears he's got the writer's blocks," Kittlemeier said, picking up the napkin and stowing it safely away in the cash register. "When he was in befores, he asks if I zinks ze Ouija boards is scarys. I say nos, is nothings but letters and numbers, ja? He says that's what he zinks toos."

"'If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does,' as the Duchess said. But then there wouldn't be any gooseberry jam, now would there? I know, we'll just hook the White Rabbit up with a splendiferous Secret Santa, that's sure to get him directly directed in the right direction."

"Ah," Kittlemeier nodded. If it wasn't an order, he just let the nonsense flow by.

"Roxy Rocket! She gives frabjous gifts, always so anxious to impress, like the Mock Turtle in a room full of March Hares. It's early still, but one must plan ahead, don't you know, for the doorknob is always turning. Soon it will be time for everyone to reach into the hat…. That reminds me, I need a new hat, and a new cravat at that. The wretched Cheshire Cat gave my nose such a bat. I'm a bleeder, don't you know! And those claws are sharper than a mustard seed, so now our best hat and cravat are soaked through with blood..."

Kittlemeier nodded and made a few notes on his notepad.

"…And all because we had a little fun at the mythology museum, don't you know. She will have to be punished of course, for the more there is of mine, the less there is of yours. Joker will draw her name, and she'll draw Ivy's. That will teach her."

"Anything besides ze hats and cravats?" Kittlemeier said patiently.

"Why Mr. Kittlemeier, what is the use of repeating all this stuff, if I don't explain it as I go along? It's by far the most confusing thing I ever heard!"

"Ja, dat happens sometimes," Kittlemeier said sympathetically.

* * *

"I decided to go with trains," Scarecrow said decisively. "I know technically it rhymes with my name in a ridiculous Hatterish way, but it's too good to pass up. On the one hand, you can put a prisoner on the tracks with a train coming at them, they see it coming but there's nothing they can do! That's quite terrifying."

"You don't have to tell me vat is for!" Kittlemeier reminded him.

"But it's only one person. The really frightful fun with a train is all the passengers, right? Rip up the track in front of them, they can see they're sure to derail, and there's nothing they can do! Just think of the screaming, how could I pass that up because of a silly little rhyme? So it's a yes on the model railroad, the remote control, the gas canisters, and the engineer's hat. No on the Superman action figures, the taser and the Daily Planet plushies."

"You still wants za carousel horse and ze brass knuckles?"

The Scarecrow mask puckered as Jonathan Crane thought…

"Toss them in. Never know when they'll come in handy."

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

When Selina brought the sandwiches down to the cave, Batman's story had reached the big discovery…

"I found the answer in Darmstadt in 1915. Mustard gas was only the tip of the iceberg in World War I. A number of German pharmaceutical companies were researching chemical methods to incapacitate soldiers. When Germany lost, all their research was seized by the Allies as spoils of war. Most of it had no obvious value, either medical or military, so it sat in a drawer. Hundreds, sometimes thousands of drugs that only existed as theory, a chemical formula in a forgotten filing cabinet that no factory anywhere was producing or would ever produce. Just sitting there."

"Until?" Oracle prompted.

"In most cases, when the research wound up in the hands of American companies, the story resumes during the cold war. The secret testing that produced LSD, ecstasy, and other substances that didn't find military uses but wound up fueling the drug culture of the sixties. 'Most cases,' that's always the catch: _most_. This tiny pharmaceuticals firm in Berkshire on a list of a dozen others going into business with WE Medical, this tiny firm with only a handful of assets… including a forgotten cache of the old German formulas. I saw it on the asset survey and sent Catwoman out to Berkshire to get into their facility and make a copy…"

"And now he sends me for a sandwich," Selina laughed, smacking the back of the cowl lightly. "Gimme gimme gimme, no gratitude."

"Impossible woman," Bruce muttered. "It was hard to be certain before I got back to the lab, but the more I read of the formulas, the more I was convinced this was the missing link."

"The missing link connecting Crane's formulas," Barbara said. "But you're still missing a link between him and this cache of old research, right?"

"Wrong," Selina sang out. "This is my favorite part because, well, 'he's Batman'."

Batman grunted.

"I told you, I'd combed Jonathan Crane's professional history in the years I'd grappled with this mystery. Crane got his undergraduate from the University of Metropolis. His junior and senior year, he lived in Prescott Hall, which was special housing open to honors students in the science departments. On every campus there's one chemistry major subsidizing their income brewing up illegal substances. In those years at the University of Metropolis, it was Adam Wild. He lived in Prescott Hall, and he came from Thatcham in Berkshire, about three miles from Newbury Pharmaceuticals."

"Wow," the Oracle head breathed. "Bullseye. Not that it has any practical value when it comes to fighting Crane, though, right? Unless I'm missing something."

"Like the formulas themselves were filed away for having 'no practical value,'" Batman graveled. "It fills in a missing piece of the past. It may connect to something important one day, it may not."

* * *

…to be continued…


	6. MKULTRA

**Do No Harm  
**Chapter 6: MKULTRA

* * *

_Qualitative Analysis of the Team-up by Tim Drake p. 3_

_The schism therefore exists not between the costumed heroes themselves but in philosophical differences among those relating their exploits. Consider the long-standing partnership between the "World's Finest Heroes" outside their respective Justice League appearances. Low-brow sensationalist media appear to draw their accounts from the maxim "Batman frowns, Superman smiles, therefore they must be enemies at heart," (Baxter, p.95) and report all World's Finest developments "with an attitude of snide cynicism implying the two are destined to destroy each other." (ibid.) The coverage by legitimate journalists reveals a far different picture, a picture of heroes "committed to a common purpose who recognize there is more that unites them than divides them." (Kent, p.143) It is telling that these positive portrayals originate, in the one city, with the two reporters known to have the closest contact with Superman and, presumably, the surest first-hand knowledge of his core beliefs and attitudes; in the other city, by Selina Kyle, who, if the claims of the previously cited Cat-Tales theatrical production is to be credited, has had more opportunities to observe Batman informally than any representative of the fourth estate…_

* * *

_..:: Metro Desk, Clark Kent speaking. ::.._

There was an infinitesimal pause during which Clark could hear the slight relaxing of vocal cords as the planned Bat-gravel gave way to a foppish lilt.

"Clark, how have you been? It's Bruce Wayne, from Gotham." This was followed by a cough and a whisper audible only to Kryptonian ears: "Is there a reason you're answering your cell like the DP landline?"

_..:: Why yes, I'd be very interested in hearing more about that. And I can assure you your anonymity is quite safe. ::.._

"I see, I can talk and you can't," Bruce graveled.

_..:: Yes indeed, we take the protection of our sources very seriously here at the Daily Planet. I'll be happy to meet you.::.._

Instead of a hangup, Bruce heard Clark call out to Perry that he was going out to meet a source. Such announcements were often followed by Superman flying into the cave a minute later, but in this case, the conversation resumed scant seconds later over the same telephone.

_..:: Sorry, Bruce. The line is secure, everything is fine. Lois and Perry are having a big fight about cell phones and pagers. I'm trying to stay out of it by not using mine in the office. If she hears me answer 'Metro Desk, Kent', she thinks it's the landline and I don't get roped into taking sides. ::.._

After the requisite grunt, Bruce explained that he had new information on an old Scarecrow matter which led to the University of Metropolis. Since the student newspaper didn't have the resources to scan their backissues into a digital database, it had to be searched in person.

"I need to check it out, so I figured I'd touch base with you and—"

_ ..:: And ask me to check it out for you. I'd be happy to. ::.._

"Actually I was just going to fill you in that I was coming to town."

_ ..:: Nonsense, I can hop right over on my lunch hour. It'll be like old times, going through a newspaper morgue. All those old articles on microfiche, indexed in those thick 3-ring binders… ::…_

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

**L.A. Times  
Saturday, December 22nd**

**Famed LA Doctor confesses to 22 year old murder**

By Vic Sage  
_Freelance Journalist  
_ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_…Dr. Gray had indeed received multiple threats on his life, most notably from a fanatical terrorist organization called El Kazar who took issue with the fact that Gray had performed a radical facial reconstruction on a man they claimed was an enemy of Allah, allowing him to escape their wrath. During the last year of his life, Gray did limit his exposure; his only real public appearances during that year were a result of his relationship with a young and talented actress named Savannah Summer…_

Clark closed the Planet's cross-syndicate database and looked at a hardcopy of the same article sitting in a manila folder labeled CASE FILE: #43-21WFMS9910I. Only Bruce… only Bruce would solve a murder as a Christmas gift. The first case they had worked on together. If there was ever a better example of what Pa said that one year when Clark was seven. It was almost Mother's Day, and Clark had taken the conventional wisdom to heart: the most precious gifts are the ones you make yourself. He was going to make his Ma a diamond as big as a baseball. Pa found his dumping ground of failed attempts in the back of the barn: stones that were dark and cloudy from impurities in the source material and weren't getting any shinier for all his attempts to buff them. "Clark, a gift's value doesn't come from what it _is_," Pa told him. "What matters is that it comes from you. You make a gift and you share a little piece of yourself. That's what tells the person you're giving it to how you feel about them."

Bruce had never closed the first case they worked on together. He'd put a tracer on the money Savannah Summer inherited, and even though Batman and Superman both had a thousand other matters claiming their attention in the years that followed, Bruce still checked in periodically on that one hopelessly cold case.

Lesson: Never say hopeless.

That wasn't the only reason Clark went into the New Year feeling buoyantly optimistic, either. Since that extraordinary scene revealing their identities to the core members of the Justice League, the team had come together as never before. It was almost as if the protocols never happened. Almost. Because they had happened, and somehow... somehow the team was _stronger_ for having come through the ordeal.

The one thing Clark regretted after the unmasking was that he got all the credit. Wally, Kyle, Eel, even Arthur assumed that Superman set the whole thing in motion, when really it was all Bruce's idea. Bruce got the bill for the damage, and Clark got the credit for the fix. It just didn't seem fair. Clark couldn't help but feel a little guilty, but Bruce seemed to prefer it that way.

Still, the end result was the same: the trust that had been eroding away under the foundations of the Justice League was renewed and fortified; it was stronger than ever… and then came Hell Month. Bruce withdrew from the human race, as always, leaving a snarling, seething Nightmare Bat in his place. Clark avoided him like everyone else did in January, which in retrospect was the wrong call. If he had notified Bruce about that minion running messages to Talia Head at LexCorp, he would have been spared that shouting match on the roof of the Daily Planet… But now that that episode was over, Clark saw no reason things couldn't pick up where they left off for the World's Finest partnership.

* * *

The imposing figure of Bruce Wayne stood before the etched glass doors of the Wayne Tower, his arms crossed and a contented smile on his face. Selina studied the image intently. She had already greeted his three secretaries and discussed their plans for the weekend, they admired her shoes and she admired theirs. There wasn't much else to do until Bruce's business with Lucius was finished, so she scrutinized the new portrait hung with such prominence in the reception area of the executive suite.

"That's awfully good," she said when Bruce came out to greet her. "It's new, isn't it?"

"Yes, a Christmas gift from a colleague," he said lightly. "D'Annunzio's tonight? Or would you rather try the new Japanese in TriBeCa?"

"Rayner," she read from the bottom corner. "I don't recognize the name. Frankly, he's a little too good for me not to have heard of him."

"Oil isn't his regular medium," Bruce said uncomfortably, ushering her to the elevator. "Portraits aren't really his thing either, I believe."

"Well maybe they should be. Two years at the Sorbonne talking here: that artist has an eye."

"Actually, I think he has two," Bruce said, fopping out completely as the elevator doors closed.

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

_…irrational and absurd to assume what little is glimpsed in the public eye is the extent of the personality or the relationship." (Hawkingsworth, p. 293) Those of us without the Shaffer compartmentalization of duel identities still assume different roles with different people and in different situations. No one uses the same 'voice' with their father as they do with their proctologist. With a boss, with a friend, with a movie usher, or with a policeman who has pulled one over for speeding, there is a language and manner appropriate to the social situation. It is indeed 'irrational and absurd' to assume Batman or Superman, perhaps even the villains they fight, do not engage in this same variance of manner in relation to the social context of the interaction. Allowing them this most fundamental facet of the human experience, is it not perfectly reasonable to assume the same after-hours dynamics among superheroes as would occur between coworkers in more conventional professions? _

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

Batman didn't know what to make of it. The Libra threat had been dispensed with, the Chronos Helix was safely returned to the Crown Nebula, and all responsible parties were turned over to the appropriate jailers on Earth and Onryka Ten. It was over; they were done… but Superman wasn't flying off. He seemed to be, for lack of a better word, "hanging around".

"What's on your mind?" Batman asked, ever direct.

"Oh, well, nothing much," came the reply that was anything but. "It's just that things have been going pretty well since the big revelation, everyone coming together as a team, just what was needed, I'd say."

Bruce grunted.

"Anything else?"

"Uh…" Clark's mind raced, searching for inspiration. What else, what else, what else… He hadn't really seen Batman since— Selina! Of course! Selina Kyle had been kidnapped by Ra's al Ghul, and that's what led to the whole shouting match on the DP roof about the courier minion running messages out of Metropolis. "How's Selina Kyle doing after that whole Ra's al Ghul kidnapping?" Clark asked (with bizarre enthusiasm given the nature of the question).

Batman assumed what Clark could only call the "Scowl of Death" in response to this peasant curiosity.

"She finds him to be an overrated 'hairdo'," he said coldly.

Assuming that now, certainly, they were done, Batman turned to leave. He hadn't made it to the edge of the roof when he realized Clark was pacing him.

"I'm sorry, is there more?" he spat. "You're not finished checking up on me and my 'criminal consort', is that it? I thought we'd covered this already..."

"What's 'checking up', I asked how she is! You ask about Lois every time I see you."

Clark suddenly realized that the expression he had always thought of as the Scowl of Death could, in retrospect, be no more than a grimace of mild indigestion. _THIS_ was a Scowl of Death.

"That came out wrong," he said simply.

"Yes, it did," Bruce declared—and before Clark could respond, he found he was standing alone on the rooftop.

* * *

Selina.

Of all the things Clark could have asked about.

"Two years at the Sorbonne talking," she had said. Two years at the Sorbonne while she trained with that Sean character from MI-6 and cut her teeth as a burglar with his crew of thieves and grifters. He still couldn't believe she had told him. In the turmoil of Hell Month, he couldn't come to grips with it, but now…

It had been a gut punch when he realized how completely he trusted her. It was something beyond even that when he realized… was realizing… was still trying to wrap his brain around the notion that _she_ trusted _him_. Paris, Italy, Switzerland… her parents, her sensei, her…

Her parents.

He'd pay one last visit to the bridge before compiling his notes—but not tonight. He was picking her up in a few hours, and he didn't want any remnant of the work to taint his behavior with her. With the discipline honed in years of maintaining a secret identity, he simply removed the investigation from his thinking. She would never know that folder existed. There was nothing to be gained in telling her. And no hangover from either Hell Month or this grim episode would intrude on their special evening.

* * *

Whiskers escorted Bat-Bruce from the door into the living room, and after the two-foot sat, Whiskers tried his best to rub the scent of his approval into his pant leg: Bat-Bruce coming in through the door—_GOOD_. Descending from the skies as Two-Foot-in-Boots—_BAD_. It shouldn't be so hard for them to catch on. Two-foots were not stupid, but they were very stubborn. Bat-Bruce especially seemed to always have his ears trained on a specific mouse and would not give up the hunt no matter what squeaky ball or catnip toy rolled across his path. Whiskers enjoyed a good hunt as much as the next mouser, but there was a limit. If you didn't stop to smell the catnip, what was the point?

Selina-cat seemed to be downright giddy from _her_ catnip. She was giggling at the magazine again.

"I'll just be two more minutes. Entertain yourself," she said, disappearing into the bedroom.

"Glitz?" Bruce asked, picking up the obnoxiously glossy magazine.

"Glitzy LIFE, page 15," Selina called out from the other room. "I did a little searching on that artist who did your portrait, Kyle Rayner. He's a cartoonist, that's one of his strips. It's absolutely wonderful! He hates the Post. I mean hates it! If Cat-Tales was still running I'd comp him front row center and take him out to Orso after."

Bruce closed his eyes and shook his head. Rayner. Taking his press personally again, it figured Selina would like that. He changed his costume and the Post declared him a global threat, possessing god-like powers that could remake the universe with a wave of his hand. It was the kind of nonsense they were always dreaming up about superpowers, it hardly warranted—

"I was thinking, maybe you could give him a grant or something—or maybe a commission. Doesn't that food shindig Alfred's involved in need artwork for the posters and programs?"

Bruce looked down at the cartoon in question:

The first panel showed two men in front of a large, ornate house. One in a suit held a clipboard, one in a jumpsuit and hard hat stood by a van labeled "PEST BE GONE".

The second panel showed a close-up of the clipboard. The page was titled "BUILDING INSPECTION" with a list of pests below: Rats, Roaches, Termites, Snakes, Ticks, Lice… and a large red "FAILED" stamped over the words.

The third panel had a close-up of the exterminator grinning smugly.

The fourth panel showed a blur of vermin racing past the building inspector in a stampede running away from the house.

The fifth panel had the exterminator returning from behind the house, tossing a newspaper to the inspector. The word balloon over him read "Works every time."

The last panel was split, the top diagonal showed the building inspector alone, holding the paper and reading it with a quizzical look on his face. "The Gotham Post? I don't get it. What so bad abou…" The lower diagonal had him running off to the right, his cheeks puffed out and his hand over his mouth.

"That man's a hero!" Selina declared, emerging from the bedroom in her evening dress. "You should figure out some way to support him."

* * *

"Later," Bruce said, so softly that Selina could barely hear him.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," he whispered. "Enjoy the opera."

It was February, and neither one of them wanted to spend too long on the opera house roof. But it was a part of his Christmas gift: those deplorable seats in the back corner of the second balcony, so near the fire escape that they could unobtrusively slip away for a few minutes during each performance—which tonight was the Benjamin Britten adaptation of Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_—and relive a few minutes of their first date on the opera house roof… A few minutes in which, tonight, Bruce saw an unmistakable fluttering of red in the distance. It couldn't be an emergency or Clark would have buzzed him on the com. So whatever it was that had him hovering on the horizon that way, it could wait.

"Is it my imagination," Selina tittered, "or does Tytania's part get twice as hard to sing after the love juice?"

"It's not your imagination," Bruce graveled. "Britten was a cynic." _Or a realist_, Psychobat added.

"It's still a nice choice for Valentine's Day," Selina cooed. "Been more than enough tragedy this season for my taste."

"More than enough frost for mine," Bruce said. "Let's get back inside."

"Meow," Selina agreed, stealing a final kiss before opening the door. "Don't want to miss the best part: Queen of the Night is head-over-heels in love with a jackass."

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

_The division of labor for task expediency is, of course, a practical dynamic and not a behavioral one. In a team-up between a vigilante archer and a world-class thief, it is clearly the thief who would dismantle alarms and penetrate a secure facility to retrieve pertinent materials while the vigilante conducted interrogations and surveillance (c.f. Catwoman/Huntress account covered below.) The social mechanisms come into play only when no meta abilities or specialized skills dictate which partner is best-suited to a given task (e.g. a friend may simply volunteer to help out a friend because he can). Similarly, when the rudimentary social conventions are not observed (e.g. if a gesture is met with marked ingratitude [again, see Catwoman/Huntress account below]), one partner may decline to assist the other on future occasions. As Hasker and Cordell noted, "there seems overwhelming evidence that the masked persona is not a determining cohesive. In the absence of immediate life-or-death exigency, the fundamental interaction imperatives apply. The Morton Hypothesis that for 'Capes' as for anyone else, like attracts like would appear to be supported by the facts: presentation of a pleasant, congenial nature elicits a pleased, congenial response, while the presentation of hostile anti-social behavior begets the same." (Hasker and Cordel, p. 29) _

* * *

**Metropolis Maroon  
Wednesday, December 10**

**Obituaries  
** ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Wild, Adam Peter; nickname "Popeye"; resident Prescott Hall,  
University of Metropolis; son Steven and Margaret Wild, Thatcham,  
Berkshire, UK; brother Ida Forest (nee Wild), Thatcham, Berkshire,  
UK; Dead at age 20 of cardiac arrest.

"Thank you," Batman graveled, double-checking the OCR before adding the scanned clipping to the K3M-W4R-CR4N3 directory.

Clark raised an eyebrow. A 'thank you' from Bruce was a rare thing. Of course, his needing a favor from Clark Kent was a rare thing too.

"It did take me back," he said with a nostalgic grin. "Those little scrolls of microfiche. I always felt bad for the students who have to wrestle with those machines. My way's a lot faster. Besides the obituary, you'll see there are a couple letters to the editor that mention the death."

"So I see," Bruce answered, skimming. A reflexively indignant pre-med student decrying a campus cover-up because a healthy twenty year old shouldn't drop dead from heart failure… A reflexively indignant English major citing Alexander Pope 'a little learning' etc. calling the first letter writer an ill-informed drama queen and noting that Popeye was a well-known campus connection whose heart failure undoubtedly resulted from sampling his own product… The final letter was from a professional student who apparently hadn't declared a major in seven years, suggesting that Popeye was 'popped' by a rival dealer. "The OpEd echo chamber was probably onto something. In all likelihood, Wild was Jonathan Crane's first victim. I'll notify Metropolis PD, it's up to them to exhume the body. I'll make sure the coroner knows what to look for."

"So this is what it's like to help a friend wrap up an old murder case," Clark said cheerily. "Looks like it's your turn again."

Bruce's lip twitched.

"Looks like. That why you flew this in in person?"

"As a matter of fact, no. Lois wanted me to look you in the eye and get an unofficial, off-the-record, completely between us—but your word of honor, right here in the middle of the Batcave—denial about something."

"That sounds serious."

"The situation is serious at every newspaper in the country, Bruce. People are scared, no fear toxins required. Lois wants to know if you're going to sell The Daily Planet."

"What? Of course not, where would she get an idea like that?"

"She was interviewing this guy who's sort of a 'Wall Street psychic'. He didn't divulge all of his tricks, but he showed her one of them: start typing the company name into Google and see what it 'suggests' based on what's searched most frequently. He searched The Daily Planet for her to demonstrate the technique, and the first option after the name alone was 'The Daily Planet _for sale_'."

"I'm familiar with that technique. As part of a more complex algorithm, it can illuminate hopes and fears in the public consciousness, although not of investors specifically. On its own, it's nothing but a party game."

"Still, she's concerned. We both remember that you only bought the paper as a precaution when Luthor was elected. You never wanted the attention of owning a media outlet, and now that he's safely out of office…"

"Clark, I give you my word, the Daily Planet is not for sale. I'm not selling it, nor would I consider selling it. It's true that in a perfect world, I would not be on a list of media owners, but that damage is done. Selling would only draw more attention, and if keeping it gives you and Lois some added peace of mind, so much the better."

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER ***

* * *

"Skyclad and Maccoltrah," Batman repeated, typing ferociously into the Batcomputer. "You say they're magical?"

He had put Selina in a cab after the opera and went straight to the satellite cave under Wayne Tower. Superman was waiting there, as expected, but now that Bruce knew what it was about, he had to wonder why Clark had bothered coming to Gotham in person. It was the sort of research that could have been done over the com from the Fortress or the Watchtower.

Clark shook his head.

"Skyclad claimed to be a witch, but I'm skeptical. It seemed like Maccoltrah was the real source of what was happening, not her. She was waving her arms and putting on a show, but I didn't detect any signs of mental or physical effort on her part. Plus, I've been caught up in magic-induced illusions before and this felt different. I had this strange taste in my mouth right before it started, something that… after Red Kryptonite exposure, I've had a taste like that."

"Electro-chemical," Batman said flatly. "An unexplained _taste, _usually sour or metallic, is a symptom of something affecting the electro-chemical signals in the brain. Maccoltrah, I wonder… Would you say this 'illusion' you experienced was more like a vision or could it be more accurately described as a hallucination."

"A hallucination," Superman said the last words along with Batman. "That's why I came to you instead of going straight to STAR Labs. They understand my Kryptonian biology better, but this… Given what I saw, I couldn't help thinking of your Scarecrow. I'm not saying he is necessarily involved, I've no reason to think his toxins work on me. I was just thinking this could be a similar…"

"Yes," Batman said gravely. "It could. Clark, you said she called him 'Maccoltrah'. Could she have been saying MKULTRA?"

"Maybe," Superman nodded. "Who is it?"

"Not a who, a what. In the early 1950s, the CIA had reports that the Soviets were experimenting with mind control. They developed their own counter program, MKULTRA. It encompassed a hundred and fifty subprograms over the next twenty years, most involving drugs, chemicals, and 'psychopharmaceuticals'. There's one recorded death resulting from an LSD 'mishap', but little else is known for certain because all the documents were destroyed in 1973. There are… _stories_, however, an inter-agency myth that there was a more serious mishap. An experimental subject with chemically engineered abilities who became unstable, an uncontrollable threat, and was placed in cryogenic suspension after he turned his abilities against the scientists running the program."

"Does this 'myth' mention his abilities?" Clark asked, aghast.

"Allegedly, he could psychically project the effects of a drug into another mind. Inject him with truth serum, point him at a third party, it's as if they're injected."

"That's monstrous," Clark gaped.

"You'll get no argument from me. If this 'Skyclad' thawed him out, she's essentially found a way to make you vulnerable to all the drugs and chemicals that effect human brain chemistry. She can't poison you or shut down any vital functions in your brain without killing this MKULTRA too, but she could subject you to a myriad of unpleasant experiences."

Superman felt a hot nausea that required no Cold-War-experiment-gone-wrong explanation.

"You still have the ring," he said quietly. "Just in case?"

It wasn't really a question, and Batman didn't bother with an answer beyond tensing certain muscles above the eyelid that subliminally suggested a nod.

"Keep it handy for the next few days," Clark said unnecessarily.

The nausea intensified. He felt like a hypocrite. Neither man had mentioned the protocols, but neither one had to. This was the reason for them, right here. Every day of his life, Clark lived with the knowledge that he could kill every person around him. He could never touch a human without that awareness and restraint. And he knew he absolutely could not live with himself if he ever lost control and hurt Lois—or Jimmy, or Perry, or any of the four billion vulnerable souls who were born on this planet where he had made himself a home uninvited. How could he live with himself if something happened that he should have foreseen and he didn't take any steps to prevent it? So, there was the ring. Rather than destroy Luthor's kryptonite ring when he got his hands on it, Clark entrusted it to a man with the resourcefulness and reverence for life to… Another wave of hot nausea washed over him, and Clark felt that, if he didn't change the subject fast, he might be ill right there on the Batcave floor.

"Hey, what were you doing on that rooftop as Bruce Wayne, anyway?" he asked, grabbing at the first subject that came into his head.

"Selina's Christmas present. Season tickets to the opera, we sneak up to the roof for an aria or two, it's… sort of a private joke."

"Ah." There was no death glare this time. The tone was eerily casual, almost foppish. Clark guessed that Bruce could sense his embarrassment bringing up the ring with all its protocol overtones, so he was going along with the whole 'friendly conversation' thing this time, just to help his friend move on from an awkward subject. "What did she get you?" Clark asked, with an equally casual lightness that, in him, came off folksy rather than foppish. "Another inside joke?"

"No, not at all." Bruce met his eye—and although it was through the eye-slits of the Batcowl, those were Bruce's eyes and not Batman's—and the eerily casual tone had been replaced by one that was eerily… charged. "She gave me… she gave me the most extraordinary demonstration that 'not hurting me' was her top priority. It was really… _she_ is really an exceptional woman."

_She must be,_ Clark thought. He knew how long he had waited to tell Lois his secret, and Bruce was ten times as cautious and a thousand times slower to trust. Add in that Selina Kyle wasn't an innocent damsel Bruce knew in his civilian life who only knew Batman as an occasional rescuer. She was _Catwoman, _in…

"Rao's name," Clark breathed.

"What?! What is it?" Batman asked sternly.

"Nothing," Clark said, preparing to leave… then he reconsidered. If he was asking Batman to watch his back during a potential mind-control episode, it was not the time to be flying off after mysterious utterances. "I was just remembering when she came to Metropolis to steal the X27 plans from LexCorp, that's all. I had just proposed to Lois, she accepted, and I hadn't told her who I was yet. Alfred gave me quite the rap on the knuckles about that."

"He did?"

"Oh yeah. Remember how you were in town for some 'business deal' with Luthor that we all knew was going nowhere. Catwoman showed up to steal those plans, and naturally 'Bruce Wayne' made a quick exit. After Catwoman escaped, as soon as Luthor saw that Wayne was still nowhere to be seen, he tried to poach Alfred."

"Oh yes, I did hear about that," Bruce chuckled. "Offered to double his salary, Alfred said."

"Well, I doubt Alfred told you the exact words of his refusal. Bruce, your butler stood toe to toe with Lex Luthor and said that if he was ever looking for new employment, _he'd rather work for Catwoman_. She doesn't hide who she is. Luthor stormed off chewing nails, and I smiled and said something complimentary. It's not every day someone cuts Luthor down that way, not to his face. And Alfred turned to me with this look I couldn't describe if my life depended on it, and he said I wasn't any better. And then he said I should 'Tell her. _Soon.'_"

There was an odd twitchy movement at the corner of Bruce's lip as he said "Sounds like him, on both counts."

Again their eyes met.

"Should I be planning to tell her, Bruce?"

"Tell… Selina?"

"You told Lois your identity the day we brought her to the Batcave and told her about the ring. With Luthor in the White House, she had to know what became of that ring for her own peace of mind. But she didn't _have_ to know you were Bruce Wayne. That was your call, Bruce. Do you remember what you said?"

"I said once she knew you'd entrusted the ring to Batman, I thought it was important she know what kind of man Batman is. And if the situation was reversed, I don't think I'd feel too comfortable with the kind of man who would accept that ring and everything it implied while hiding his face behind a... Alfred really said that about Selina?"

"He said it about _Catwoman_ long before any of us heard the name Selina Kyle. Look, I have to get back to Metropolis before Skyclad and MKULTRA can regroup, but I want you to think about this. It was trusting the others in the League enough to take off that mask that brought them around to trusting you again. You knew it would when you proposed it. This thing with you and Selina... I'm not about to make any assumptions about what it is or where it's going, but Bruce, it's obvious that you trust her implicitly, and there is no other person on this planet whose judgment I believe in more than yours."

Clark placed his hand on Bruce's shoulder. "You trusted Lois so she would know she could trust you. If… if it's time for Selina Kyle to feel she can trust Superman that way, you let me know."

* * *

Seeing no criminal below, nor any signs of criminal activity, Batman fired a line, snaring a gargoyle on the face of the Sterling Trust Building. Checking tension with a reflexive tug, he swung effortlessly into the abyss, his mass cutting the air like a blade. Muscle memory and unthinking reflexes shifted his knees, tipped his head back and pulled his legs into position for optimum speed. His body slashed through the wind, perfectly balanced, perfectly controlled, until an effortless shake freed the line from the gargoyle as he dropped to the ledge of the Knickerbocker, overlooking the alley behind… **_ Glare!_** Whatthe—

His first thought was the Batsignal, but the signal should never be that bright. The _moon_ should never be that bright. He couldn't make out the figures in the alley below for the glare. Batman looked up to identify the culprit, and as he did, the starry sky split open like a curtain into a blinding glare of white.

"Good morning, sir. I trust you slept well."

Bruce rolled onto his side with a grimace, fleeing the demon brightness, until an accusatory throat-clearing from Alfred compelled him to turn back. He pushed himself back on the bed until his back was up against the headboard, and Alfred gently positioned a legged breakfast tray across his lap. Bruce stifled a final yawn and let the smell of the warm food lure him back to the land of the living. There was an assortment of toast and muffins with various spreads, several strips of bacon, a soft-boiled egg on a Limoges china stand, two glasses of orange juice, and a silver pot of coffee.

"Anything pressing?" he asked, glancing at the letters and papers in the bin on the side of the tray, behind his morning Times.

"No, sir, merely a few matters which should be addressed before they become pressing. The _Festival Français de Vin_ is almost upon us and—"

"Oh, right, the food thing. Can't we get out of it, Alfred?" He picked up the first glass of juice and drank it down in a series of urgent gulps.

"I regret, sir, that 'we' cannot. Given the admirable standard you have always set with respect to taking responsibility for your actions, I am forced to remind you that I am under considerable obligation to Monsieur Anatole for salvaging Master Dick's dinner with Miss Barbara. And as I was forced to beg the assistance of that odious little man due to your own actions, sir—"

"It's not like I robbed a bank, Alfred. It was a glass bowl on the kitchen counter. I thought it was sugar—"

"—_As I was saying, sir,_ we are obligated to host the event. As it will bring strangers into the manor, I have completed a thorough inventory of the cave, so we may proceed with the customary lockdown and freezing of purchases and deliveries."

"DefCon 4, yes, fine. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir, I contacted Mr. Bastion at Cartier. Unfortunately, he in Antwerp until next week. I felt sure that you would prefer that Master Dick wait to have a personal consultation, so I said I would call back at that time to arrange an appointment."

"That's fine, that's fine," Bruce said as he took a bite out of a strip of bacon. "Whatever you have to do there. This is the first and probably the last time I'll ever say this, but this is one thing I want to be all Bruce Wayne and absolutely no Batman. No discretion, no concern about the public persona or strangers in the house. I want this wedding to be the social event of the season. Dick is my son, and I haven't always shown him how much that means. It's time to make up for it."

"I shall endeavor to make the event all you would wish, sir, and all the young people would wish… which does introduce another matter. It occurs to me that Miss Selina has broken several deadlocks with respect to the wedding plans, voting down some truly deplorable suggestions from that unfortunate Mr. Cory. Returning briefly to the subject of Cartier, it might not be amiss to have Mr. Bastion bring a selection of more 'casual' items for _you_ to view when he comes to consult with Master Dick about the engagement ring."

"Alfred, I'm as relieved as you are that there isn't going to be a calypso band at the reception, but Selina does not require a thank you. She's only voting against Dick. No matter what side he takes in the voting, she goes the other way. It's… I'm not really sure what the underlying issue is, but Catwoman was always predictable that way. Once the claws come ou… Uh oh." On the nightstand, Bruce's cell phone vibrated in its charger, a specific vibration: one short, one long, two short. "That's the League communicator," Bruce graveled. "I was afraid of this. It's why I cut patrol short last night, to be rested this morning, just in case."

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

_… imposing a fictional model on the heroes that dates back to King Arthur and Lancelot, or even Robin Hood and Little John, where the future allies must fight the first time they meet (Thunmonkerly, p. 14). While Superheroes can certainly participate in the L-dynamic where life imitates art when the original art reflected truth about the human condition, it is far more likely a conflict will come later when a partnership is well established, and will arise not from artificial and superficial constructs but from the necessity of circumstance…_

* * *

*** YEARS EARLIER***

* * *

Whiskers escorted Bat-Bruce to the door with a happy trot, and then returned to Selina-Cat's feet to rub the scent of his approval into her shoe. Bat-Bruce coming in through the door: _ GOOD_. Descending from the skies as Two-Foot-in—where was she going?

Ah, of course. She was putting on the soft purple from under the bed. Then it would be out onto the balcony, coming back the same way before dawn. But she had no cape and never messed up the jungle leaves.

"Something is definitely wrong, guys. Did you see how he kept tensing up his right hand? It was like that all night, even at the restaurant. If we learned one thing from that whole 'Hell Month' episode it's that Bruce making a fist all night is not a good thing."

Whiskers tried to explain very nicely that he didn't care what Bat-Bruce did with his fist as long as he kept the cape off the jungle plant! With that typical two-foot stubborn that ignores whatever they don't want to talk about, Selina-cat just squatted down to scratch between his ears and said "Don't wait up, Handsome. Kitty gotta prowl."

* * *

The historical museum wasn't Catwoman's kind of place. She only broke in the first time to make a point after that Hell Month fight with Bruce… Hell Month. She was upset that night and figured she should go back. She should do it right. Explore all the nooks and crannies, all the details of the alarms and motion sensors, nail down if the guards were consistent with their patrolling or if she just lucked out that night. It made a fun hobby for a few weeks, but she'd had her fill. It was time for a new toy… She thought of the Gotham Racquet Club.

Bruce obviously had some pain in his fingers handling the menu at d'Annunzio's. Giovanni asked about it, and Bruce said he'd banged up his hand playing racquet ball. Selina thought nothing of it at the time, but as Bruce went on rubbing his knuckles throughout the evening, she couldn't help but remember all that unconscious fist-making during Hell Month. It _seemed_ like he was back to normal, but it's not like you could ever be sure with him. And given the way he reacted the last time she brought up a Hell Month subject, she certainly wasn't going to ask. Anyway, the Gotham Racquet Club was a good a place as any to have some fun with a new set of locks and… What… the… Hell…

She was crossing Times Square, and right there on the news crawl it said Batman and Superman had come to blows in Metropolis that afternoon? What the Hell! What the…

* * *

The Batsignal… Great. Perfect end to a perfect day. He should have just cancelled the dinner with Selina, stayed in Metropolis, gotten a room at the Four Seasons, and spent the evening with his knuckles cooling in a bowl of ice. If it was anywhere but Metropolis—the last thing he was going to risk was another run-in with Talia. He had been as clear as it was possible to be: _They were nothing to each other. They were not going to be anything to each other. _He had been as clear as any man could be. As Selina herself put it, a _dog_ can understand 'no'. Ra's al Ghul's daughter, on the other hand, simply couldn't wrap her mind around the concept. She would read anger as passion, pity as tenderness, exasperation as lust—and his being back in Metropolis as proof that he couldn't keep away from her.

So he'd come home. He'd bluffed his way through dinner with Selina, and now Catwoman was draped over the…

…

…

Now…

Catwoman was draped over the Batsignal like a lounge singer on a grand piano.

She slid off it, silently…

Walked up to him…

With considerably less slink in her hips than usual for that maneuver…

And looked wordlessly into his eyes for what seemed like a full minute…

"This game of 'racquetball' when you banged up your hand, that wouldn't have Superman's serve you were trying to break four hundred feet over Metropolis?"

"Something like that," he graveled.

"You might have mentioned it," Catwoman said coldly.

Batman glared. Nobody challenged him this way. Nobody. If he chose to tell you something, fine. If he didn't, that's the way it was. If he… if…

"It was a long, difficult day. I just didn't want to go through it all again. I didn't want to talk about it."

She gave a wry smile.

"Fair enough," she said finally, although her tone said the opposite. "I mean everybody's entitled to shut down after a bad day, right? But c'mon, you get into a fist fight with Superman, word's gonna get out, and… surprises like that make a girl feel… pretty out of the loop."

He glowered. She was right, and he hated that she was right. Psychobat roared that she wasn't entitled to an _ accounting of his movements_—but even Psychobat had to admit it wasn't unreasonable for the woman he had dinner with—who he was also having sex with—to know as much as any random stranger who had been sitting at home watching the news while they were sitting down at d'Annunzio's.

"Look, next time, if you don't want to talk about it, at least let me know there's something to not talk about, okay?"

It wasn't unreasonable. It wasn't even feline logic. It was just… fair.

He grunted.

And she purred.

"Out of curiosity, Stud, how do you manage to hit him without flat out breaking your hand?"

"It's a knack," he said.

"I take it whatever big-bad red-kryptonite black-magic green-alien other-dimensional-leprechaun set off the 'roid rage Superman is now dispensed with? Or is there liable to be a sequel next week in the middle of Alfred's food and wine shindig?"

Batman's lip twitch.

"It's dispensed with."

"Okay then," she smiled. "I hope that big blue nitwit appreciates it."

* * *

He paid one final visit to the bridge—one _final_, final visit—before compiling his notes. It was all he could think to do. He'd combed the police report, the hospital records, insurance claims and estate settlements. He'd been to the bridge twice, examined the weather reports from the night of the accident and all the city records on the maintenance and safety inspections of the bridge. Everything checked out. He even traced the path that the ambulance would have taken to the hospital, despite the certainty that the Kyles would have perished within minutes of hitting that icy water. Everything was as it seemed at the time: a tragic accident, nothing more. That's when he made that third trip to the bridge… A tragedy that had stripped the protective cocoon from her just as savagely as it had from him, leaving her alone and defenseless in a frightening world. There was nothing he could do about that, but at least he ensured there were no sleeping serpents in that sad tale. No dark surprises that could come back to hurt her. It was all he could think to do in repayment for what she'd done for him.

He'd placed all the files and photographs together with his handwritten notes in a fresh folder, affixed a preprinted label, and took it solemnly to the hologram safe. Opening that safe wasn't something Bruce ever did lightly, but opening it to add something new brought a particular gravitas to the occasion. First, out came the box with the kryptonite ring. Out came his mother's jewelry box, where he kept the personal effects that were returned to him after the… He didn't open it. He just laid it reverently on the side as he lifted the stack of folders and paperwork and slid the new addition on the very bottom. He replaced the jewelry box and the ring box, and as he closed the door, he mentally shut it away in a similar vault in his mind. She would never know he'd conducted that investigation…

Then, today, when he got back from Metropolis, he opened the safe again to put back the ring. He had such an odd feeling opening the door again so soon, such an odd feeling remembering there was something new in there… and why.

_"I hope that big blue nitwit appreciates it."_

Maybe she did have a right to know. She wasn't his wife, Lois was Clark's _wife_, but…

_"I hope that big blue nitwit appreciates it." _

When Clark first drew that comparison, it seemed absurd. "You always ask about Lois." Selina was not Lois Lane, but… but… He investigated the accident that killed her parents because he couldn't stand the thought of some ghastly new information surfacing in the future, something that would tear open that old wound, something that would hurt her.

_"I hope that big blue nitwit appreciates it." _

She didn't want to see him hurt, that's what that empty box at Christmas said. She didn't want to see him hurt. The same feelings he had for her that led to investigating… that's what she felt for him. She cared about him as much as he cared for her.

_"You get into a fist fight with Superman, word's gonna get out."_

Maybe she did have a right to know…

* * *

_ºº Death prowls the jungle. Woe to my prey, once the Jungle Cat of Death has chosen, none can escape. Keen are the eyes of the Jungle Cat, sharp are his claws, and powerful is his jaw. Silent, he crouches. Silent and invisible, he lies in wait. Nothing can approach without his notice, nothing can— CAPE! ºº_

Whiskers hunched low behind the planter and hissed at a rhythmic disturbance of the moonlight above, a disturbance that was becoming all too familiar. First came the fluttery break in the shafts of moonlight, then there was a rustling sound and the boot—NO! WHAT?! NO!!!

The moonlight flickered a second time, and the rustle was different. Not one but TWO sets of boots landing and—ACK! No sooner did the first cape sweep over the jungle plant, a second cape brushed the top of Whiskers's own tail!

* * *

Batman and Superman stood in Selina's living room, the former glancing around to confirm all the curtains were drawn, the latter looking photogenic but tongue tied.

"I think you two know each other," Batman prompted.

"It's been a while," Selina said lightly. She had just returned from her prowl and had only removed her gloves and mask when the visitors arrived. Bruce alone, she would have purred and offered coffee. The pair of them dropping in together and unannounced, they didn't get coffee. They got felinity. "That was some interesting footage on CNN, Spitcurl. Looked like you threw a helicopter at my boyfriend."

Superman glanced at Batman, who merely strolled over to the pullcord for the floor-to-ceiling vertical blinds that covered the glass doors and panels leading to the balcony.

"Don't worry, I don't hold those things against anyone," Selina laughed brightly. "I know better than anyone that if it's in the press, it's probably wrong. And newspapers or video doesn't make much difference."

"But she is aware the fight yesterday was real," Batman noted, then turning to Selina he added, "You saw my hand."

"Y-yes," she nodded. "Look fellas, I like a game of cat and mouse as much as the next kitty, but it's late. My work day is over, which you can tell by the fact that I'm home and my mask is sitting on the coffee table, so could we move this along?"

"She has a point," Batman said, removing his cowl and placing it on the table next to her mask. Then he turned to Superman.

"Just like that?" Superman asked.

Bruce nodded and turned to Selina. "You might want to sit down," he advised, sitting himself.

Before she could do so or respond, she found she was looking at Clark Kent standing where Superman had been.

"For the record," he said in a nasal, whiney voice, "some of us in the media consider our job to be a, a sacred trust, necessary for a working democracy. Without a free press acting honorably, reporting the truth of what happens as objectively as we can and making sure all sides get a fair hearing, you don't have an informed public. Without that…" he nervously adjusted his glasses at the bridge support over the nose, "without that, voters can't make an informed decision…" Finding the adjustment unsatisfactory, he adjusted his glasses again on the side. "So you see, the very foundation of democracy is this idea that the majority will make the right decision if they have all the information, and you can't achieve that without an active and honorable press."

By this time, Selina had sunk slowly and silently onto the sofa behind her.

"Uh, yeah, okay," she said now that the introduction to Professor Kent's Journalism 101 lecture seemed to be paused.

"Oh, sorry," he said in an embarrassed absent-minded way, "Clark Kent, Daily Planet."

He extended his hand and Selina shook it, looked at Bruce, then back at Clark, and then back at Bruce again.

"Another blithering airhead, what is it with you guys?"

Neither man responded, but Clark sat clumsily in a deep chair, as if the seat was an inch lower than he expected. Then he sat up a little straighter and continued in his natural voice.

"As everyone knows, I came to Earth when my home planet of Krypton was on the brink of destruction. I was an infant at the time. The ship landed in Smallville, Kansas. A farm family, the Kents, found me and raised me as their son."

"Why tell me?" Selina asked in wonder.

"Because I threw a helicopter at your boyfriend," Clark said seriously. "I wish I could say it won't happen again, but we all know it could. It's only right that you know what Bruce risks his life for."

"Fair enough. And… well, thank you for telling me. "

Superman smiled warmly and Selina raised an eyebrow.

"Wait. Kent, Planet. You're married to Lois Lane?"

Clark absently fiddled with his wedding ring. "Yes."

"Well, that explains a lot. So, what kind of name is 'Skyclad' anyway? Doesn't it mean naked?"

"Not in her case. Her costume seems to take the phrase literally," Clark answered. "Kind of a bodystocking/video screen. It goes from photorealistic white clouds on a blue background to an equally photorealistic night sky covered in stars."

Selina puckered her lips like she tasted something sour.

"That is _tragic_. So, other than this revelation that every week you cash a paycheck from a newspaper that's practically Superman's press secretary, is there anything else we have to discuss tonight?"

The two heroes looked at each other and shrugged.

"No, that's about it," Clark said, standing as if he was just released from the dentist's chair.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Bruce said, kissing Selina's cheek before taking his cowl from the table.

_ºº The Jungle Cat will be avenged,ºº _Whiskers vowed. _ººCaped fiends, beware! When you least expect it, vengeance will be mine. ºº _

* * *

*** YEARS LATER ***

* * *

_…and the ability to adapt to changing circumstances and relationships while remaining true to themselves, their histories, and their ideals. (Cavendah, p. 34) In essence, according to Donnel, the whole can be more than the sum of their parts only when both individuals are complete and self-actualized persons to begin with, and when the overriding socio-dynamic is_

Tim erased the last sentence, the last paragraph, and the last page. Then he scrolled back to page one and read his intro up to the statement of his thesis. Then he held his middle finger up to the screen.

"I was going to ask how it's going," Clark said brightly. "Maybe this isn't the best time for that?"

Tim turned and greeted his surprise visitor, who explained that he'd just come from the manor and that Bruce, Selina, and Alfred all mentioned his project. Tim admitted it wasn't going to well.

"That's why I dropped in," Clark said with a wink. "I have some experience writing about 'what I do'. Maybe I can give you some pointers."

"Whoa, could you!" Tim exclaimed. "I didn't think of that… wow you… you _do_ do that, don't you!"

"Let's see what you've got," Clark laughed, glancing at a page of notes next to the printer. "Oh Tim, 'opportunities to observe Batman informally'?"

* * *

© 2009, Chris Dee

* * *

Next:

Long-standing mystery of Scarecrow Toxin SOLVED.  
Will it make a difference?

Find out in  
DON'T FEAR THE JOKER


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